Sometimes you read something that is really fascinating but that also raises some questions. 
          Three years ago a Texas doctor, Dr. Darrell Cass, inform his patient, Margaret Boemer, that her unborn child had a tumor on her tail bone that, left unchecked, would eventually block the blood flow to and from the baby's heart and the baby would die. There weren't many options. Let the baby die or do surgery. Doing surgery on an unborn child has been done many times, but this would have to be different. This surgery, because of the nature of it and location of the tumor, would have to be done outside of the womb. Then, the child would have to be put back into the womb so the mother could carry her to term and give the baby all the time needed to finish forming. Margaret and her husband agreed to have the surgery, despite the danger to Margaret. The baby was what mattered.
          At twenty three weeks the surgery was performed. It took five hours, but only about 20 minutes on the baby. The process of opening Margaret's womb, extracting the baby and then putting her back and sealing the womb back up was the painstaking part. What followed then was twelve weeks of bed rest for Margaret and then, baby LynLee was born. The little thing is now doing well and is progressing normally. In an interview Margaret said, "We love that LynLee's story of Life is being shared! Giving hope to others and giving testimony to God's hand on her life! LynLee is truly a miracle and blessing from the Lord!" Just an incredible story.
          But, it does pose an interesting question. Many, many people today, maybe even the majority of people in this country, believe that life begins at birth. Until the child is born it is just tissue mass. Not really alive except as part of the woman. LynLee was born twice. Now, obviously, these were parents willing to do anything to save the baby's life, including risk to the mother. They loved LynLee, sight unseen. But let's suppose something. Let's suppose Dad goes to Mom during that twelve weeks of bed rest and says, "You know, honey. I have just looked at the pictures while the fetus was out of you and that thing has your aunt Bessie's nose. I don't think it would be fair to the fetus to have to go through life with that nose." (I know that some people think that terminating a pregnancy is only done in cases of possible death to the mother or other extreme situations, but those people are wrong. Termination can be done at any time and for any reason.) "Oh," Mom replies. "You are so right. Let's abort and save the fetus the grief!" So, they go to their local, friendly abortion clinic and have the ugly lump of tissue removed. However, LynLee has already been born. She is just in a natural incubator. Is the one who performs the abortion guilty of murder in the eyes of Texas law, which does not allow the killing of an infant after it is born alive? Is Mom and Dad complicit in the murder? How would the law handle this situation?
          The obvious defense would be that during the surgery that saved LynLee's life, the umbilical cord was not cut. (That is my assumption only. I could find no reference. My assumption is based on the fact that where the tumor was, attached to the tail bone, it would be unnecessary to cut the cord.) If uncut, the child would still be attached to the mother and would therefore still be a part of the mother. So, still just tissue. But there have been cases where an expectant mother has been killed, either by accident or on purpose, and the person responsible has been brought up on charges as being responsible for two deaths, mother and unborn child. How is that even legally possible? But staying with this case, if life begins at birth, then what is birth? LynLee was out of her mother! She likely squirmed and complained. She was, literally, less than a handful at 23 months. Was she not born? Yet, we know that if her parents decided to abort, it would have been legal. LynLee can always be grateful to modern medicine for her life, but she should always be grateful for parents who loved her unconditionally without even seeing her.
          When I worked at the funeral home, we took in the body of a baby that had been born, lived a few minutes and then died. I didn't know the child or the parents, but grief just overwhelmed me. Taking the child up in my arms, I sat down in an office chair in the prep room office and I just rocked that little girl for twenty minutes, tears running down my face. You see, I believe that it is in each of us to hold life as sacred. I also believe that it is each of us to marvel at the creation of life while it is in the womb. To me, that deceased little girl was still sacred, even in death. But, sadly, I also believe that humanity wants to have everything both ways. We want to have life, but we also want to end life when it is inconvenient. When it hampers our lifestyle or when it will put burdens on our lives. Life has become precious, but only in certain circumstances. I believe that when a child is conceived it is already in God's hands and is loved by the Father. When that child's life is terminated, he/she has been snatched from God's hand. I don't see God being pleased.
          I would really like to shake the hands of the medical team that pulled off that surgery. I would really like to hold LynLee. But mostly, I would love to embrace that Mom and Dad and tell them how great and mighty they are.
          Blessings.

          I was a victim of a home invasion Thursday morning. It is the only thing that makes sense. I am a little shaken, but there was, as far as I can tell, no harm done.

          Let me explain the sequence of events.

Last Friday some thunder and lighting rolled through the area. As is typical, I lost my Wi-Fi. Happens every time. Since my home computer is very old, it is not Wi-Fi compatible, so it is hard wired to the unit in the apartment. I do not lose the internet. However, my television is a ‘smart’ television and is dependent on Wi-Fi to play anything. So, I had no television. Not really a problem because I do not watch a lot of TV. Actually, very little. I went till Tuesday before I called my provider. When they originally came out and hooked me up, they said they would be there between 8:30 and 11:00 AM. On that day the guy got there at 6:15 in the evening and was gone by 7:30. I was not a happy camper. Since then, when I have had a problem, I have called and, after listening to awful music for a period of time, they have talked me through the fix on the phone. But this time was different and involved a lightening strike that overloaded something. They would be out, they said, between 8:30 and 11:00 AM on Thursday.

 Being pretty certain I would have to be waiting all day, I took the stuff I was working on home on Wednesday. At 8:30 I was turning on my home computer when my phone rang. “Hello?” “Hi, is this Mr. Wade?” Great, I thought. Open the day with a telemarketer. “Yes, it is.” “Mr. Wade, this is your Metronet technician. I am on Main Street right now and should be at your location inside 5 minutes. Is that OK?” “Ah, what now?” “This is your Metronet technician. I am on Main Street right now and should be at your location inside 5 minutes. Is that OK?” “Oh, um, yeah, sure. That would be great.”

 Obviously, it was a scam. Somehow, they had hacked Metronet’s schedule and they were going to use that to gain entry. I watched out the window expecting to see a rusted out S-10 pull up with a cardboard sign on the side saying ‘Metronet.’ Actually, it was a very respectable work van emblazoned with Metronet logo and phone number. I couldn’t help but be impressed at the attention to detail these scammers were using. A young man, mid 30s, dressed in what appeared to be an actual Metronet uniform, hopped out of the van and headed to my door. Oh, these guys were good. But I am pretty sharp. He carried no electronic equipment or tools, so it reinforced my certainty that he was there to do harm. I might be an aging old coot, but I was not going to be easy.

 He came in and I showed him where the equipment was located. He pulled out his cell phone and called in to tell someone where he was and what he was doing. Of course, I knew he was letting the other guy in the truck know he was going to be needed soon. Foolish of him to not even bring in something that looked vaguely like electronic equipment. Not even an ohmmeter, for goodness sakes.

 But then, he turned on the television and, using his cell phone, began going through all kinds of technical data. It occurred to me that this must be why it is called a smart TV. My son bought it for me and told me it was a smart TV, but I had just rolled my eyes at the time. Now, however, it was certainly acting smart. Next, the supposed technician walked over to my computer, after asking first, and began entering more data. A few more phone calls were made to clear up his confusion (he told me that this was truly a mess due to the nearby lightening strike) and then at 9:30 he slipped his phone back in his pocket, said his farewells and left.

 I looked around. It didn’t seem he had taken anything. Maybe he had seen that I have nothing of value. Well, I do have a couple pair of neat socks in my sock drawer, but he never looked in the bedroom. No, he must have realized that I had nothing worth taking. Obviously, a home invasion, but a pointless one. And, my television works now. I don’t know. I am confused.

 This morning I am still thinking about it. All night I expected someone to slip in and take my cool socks. Nothing happened, except I lost some sleep. Could it have been that he really was a Metronet tech? Actually on time and efficient? Were my misgivings foolishness?

 Not really. No. We have become so certain of incompetence that we expect it in every facet of our lives. Two days after my open heart surgery a man walked into my room pushing a machine. He began to take close up pictures of my legs. I asked him what he was doing. He said he was mapping the veins that they would have to extract in order to do my by-pass. “I’M HAVING ANOTHER BY-PASS?” “Oh, you’ve had one before?” “TWO DAYS AGO!” He checked his paperwork and said, “No, I don’t think so. You are on the schedule for tomorrow.” I am laying in bed, pretty well wrapped in bandages and drainage tubes and my legs have nasty looking surgical incisions on them and this genius is telling me I am having surgery the next day, I complained about it and just got a snicker from my nurse. We become used to incompetence in our medical, in our politicians, in the service industry, in restaurants………..actually, in everything. We come to expect it. And when someone actually is competent, we hardly know how to act.

 Thursday evening we had a Board of Christian Ed meeting at the church. I looked around the table. Brian chaired the meeting. Brian’s brother-in-law, Jeff, was shot recently. He became a focus of prayer. In spite of the seriousness of the injury, Jeff was out driving a little the other day. A few days after that, Brian had cancer surgery. He became a focus of prayer. He is doing really well now. On the other side of the table from me, Tonya sat in the meeting. She had cancer surgery on Monday. She became a focus of prayer. More tests need to be done, but it seems she is cancer free and she was in the meeting three days later. Next to me was Mary. Two weeks in a row saw two grandsons have pretty serious surgeries. They became a focus of prayer. Both are doing well. Mary and her daughter will be traveling to the Cleveland Clinic next week to address some issues Terri has. She will be a focus of prayer. They are not really worried. And that was just one meeting on a Thursday night. On Sunday morning we can look around and see those stories repeated everywhere in the church. Incompetence may surround us, but we have the confidence that the Lord is fully competent.

There are a number of contemporary Christian songs with the title, “What A Mighty God We Serve.” I like the one performed by Vickie Winans. There is a lot of repeating of lyrics, but the principle lyrics are these:

What a mighty God we serve
What a mighty God we serve
The angels bow before him
Heaven and earth adore him
What a mighty God we serve

All the angels said it
Heaven and earth declare it
Lift your voice and say
He is a mighty God

He is a Mighty God!

          The recent clean out of the parsonage was difficult for me. Memories were around every corner and in every cubby. Not memories of the house, but memories of the life I was privileged to live with my wife. However, as I went along, I refused to dwell on those memories. It wasn’t until the last day, the day of the sale, (AND THANK YOU TO ALL WHO HELPED AND WHO CAME BY TO PURCHASE THINGS) and it had nothing to do with my marriage. Standing in the kitchen with Terry and Carla, I looked down and saw a piece of plastic that I recognized, but not from this life. I reached down and picked it up. It was pink (the one I had was green) and it was plastic (the one I had was tin). It had a little button on the top and when I pushed it, it made a loud clicking noise. The three of us talked about it for a bit. It may have been Marsha’s for some reason, but I had never seen it. It was a toy, a noise maker, but it brought back a memory thread that had been buried.

          Back when I was a little boy, we played Army. My friend Keith (my age) and his older brother Kevin and I all had plastic helmets and plastic Army guns and we played a lot of Army. Army shows were on TV and Army movies played and our Dads were WWII vets and Vietnam wasn’t yet a thing. I don’t ever remember playing cowboys and Indians. That stuff was on TV and the movies, too, but we didn’t play that. We played Army. Toy makers knew that boys played Army, so they make plastic replicas of guns and helmets and hand grenades and all kinds of stuff they couldn’t have now. If that stuff existed now they would be saying we were raising a generation of murderers. Funny how we missed that memo back then and all seemed to grow up pretty normal, relatively speaking. Anyway, we were equipped with authentic looking plastic Army gear.

          And then the toy maker Hasbro came out with this little clicker thing. The advertisement had actual video of paratroopers landing in fields at night while the announcer told the story of paratroopers landing the two nights before D-Day back in 1944 to carry out sabotage behind German lines. The troopers would land and get rid of their chutes and then, in the dark, use little clickers to locate one another. Now, Hasbro was selling these little clickers just for you so you could have what them real soldiers had!!! And, they were real metal.

          Within a month, every boy in school had one. The teachers were taking them away so fast that they were filling their desk drawers fast with the little things. I imagine they were super annoying. Just a flat, loud click. You could keep the clicker in your pocket and click it in secret there. They were going off all over school; classrooms, busses, hallways, library, music. They made the teachers angry and made the boys laugh like loons. Pretty soon, they were all gone.

          As a toy craze, they didn’t have real lasting power. Other than clicking them, you really couldn’t do anything else. On the last day of school when the teachers handed back all the things they had confiscated throughout the year, we got our clickers. They weren’t fun any more and most of them just wound up in dresser drawers in our homes.

          Jumping forward a few years to junior high. All of us boys thought we were thrill seekers with a solid streak of ‘bad’ in us. It was coming up on Halloween and everyone was talking about what they were going to do. We were, of course, far to grown up to trick or treat, so we planned to create a little mayhem. Toilet papering the trees and soaping windows were high on the list. Keith and I lived on the same toad, but that was it out there at the time. Just us. I had two sisters, Cathy and Debbie, and Keith had a brother and sister, Karen. My sisters were older, in fact Cathy had graduated from school and Debbie was a senior, and Kevin was older, also in high school. So, they were not going trick or treating. Karen was two years younger than Keith and me and was at that pest age. Actually, she had been a pest all her life just because she was a girl. At that point in time, except for the pest, it was just Keith and me.

          We decided we could be bad. We grew up in Perry Township. There was also a Perry Village, which seemed big to us but was really a collection of houses. A gas station, a bar/pool hall, a little, tiny grocery store, a little place they called a delicatessen but was really sweet shop with a four stool soda fountain in the back, a feed mill, a lumber yard, a post office half the size of Urbana’s and a small volunteer fire department. And there was a barber. He also ran the bar/pool room and had the barber shop in the bar. You got a better haircut if you caught him early in the day. But it was the village and it was where Keith and I were going to be bad on Halloween.

          We dressed all in dark and told our Mom’s that we were going to be bums. We carried bags that were supposed to collect candy, but that actually carried our objects of terror. Keith brought several rolls of toilet paper and I had the soaps we needed to terrorize the Village. Karen, being unusually perceptive, knew we were up to something and wanted to join us. But her Mom told her that the boys didn’t want to look after her and that they would go elsewhere. Yay Mom! Keith’s Mom drove us into the Village and my Mom would pick us up. And in the meantime, the Village would be so rocked that it would never be the same!

          Things didn’t go right from the beginning. The reason was that, while we were bad boys at heart, we didn’t know how to be bad boys. We had planned this all out. Keith would go and toilet paper some trees. I would go and soap some windows. We would meet back at the feed mill by using our clickers that we still had (just like real soldiers) and then just wander through the village innocently observing our daring raid. Except……..

          You stand away from a tree and hurl the roll of toilet paper up. It unravels in flight, leaving a strip of toilet paper draped over the tree. Then, you went and picked up the roll and did it again until the toilet paper ran out. He had three rolls, so he was all set. However, toilet paper then, as now, has a light adhesive on the end to hold it together until used. Keith never thought to peel that away before he threw. So, he chucked a roll skyward and it didn’t unravel. He ran over and picked up the roll and tried again. Same thing. Like throwing a white football into the trees. The grass was wet because it had rained earlier, and after the second throw that roll was wasted. He pulled out the next roll and wasted it, too. Frustrated, he just threw the third one into the weeds.

          Meanwhile, on the soaping front, I had brought a box of Tide. I tried to rub the powder on the windows and that was as pointless as trying to toilet paper a tree with a roll of toilet paper that will not unravel. Terrified now, I booked back toward the feed mill. I pulled my clicker out and began to click like mad. The mission had to be aborted! All of a sudden, clickers went off all over the village. In the shadows you could see figures bent over and running like crazy. The clicking grew louder. Apparently, most of the boys from my class, grouping off in twos and threes, had the same idea as Keith and I. They would descend on the village, make their raids and use their clickers to locate or abort. My call for Keith was taken as a general retreat.

          The next morning I imagine people were surprised to find soggy rolls of toilet paper in their yards and bars of Zest beneath their windows. Someone, I am sure, was very puzzled as to why there was a half full box of Tide in the weeds by the feed mill, just as my mother always wondered what happened to her box of Tide. As the stories circulated, one of the guys had three lunch bags with dog poop in them. What you were supposed to do was put a bag of dog poop on a porch, light it on fire and then ring the door bell and then hide and watch the home owner come out and stomp it out and get poop on his shoes. This guy had brought the bags of poop but forgot matches, so when the retreat sounded, he just threw the bags away. That was also an interesting find, I am sure. The destruction of the village was not happening that night.

          The fact was, we were not bad kids. We all grew up and made something of our lives. Death has claimed several, though none for a while now. When we communicate, either by e-mail or phone or Facebook or, for those who live close still, getting together, the talk is kids and grandkids and aches and pains.

          No one, though, ever talks about that Halloween night. Seeing that clicker on the floor brought it all back, but I am not saying anything.

          However, I do have a story of that little pest if anyone wants to hear it.   

          Psalm 119 has 176 verses in it, making it, by far, the longest chapter in the Bible. Most people know next to nothing about this chapter except for 119:11, Thy word have I hid in mine heart, that I might not sin against thee and Psalm 119:105, Thy word is a lamp unto my feet, and a light unto my path.          I put those two verses in the King James Version because many would not recognize them in the version they read. It is kind of like the Lord’s Prayer…..we like it the way we learned it.

          But, back to point. Psalm 119. Those 176 verses are divided in groups of eight verses. Remember, the Bible as written originally did not have verses like we have today. The chapter and verse headings were added later for ease of reading. Nothing else was changed. Imagine if that was not the case. Sunday morning. The sermon is from John. I step to the pulpit and say, “Now, go to the Book of John and in the first third of the Book, I would say toward the end of the first third of the Book, maybe the beginning of the second third of the Book and look for a sentence that says “Even His brothers did not believe Him. Raise your hands when you find it. No, Ed, the Gospel of John, not First John. It is the first third, or maybe the second third of the Gospel of John. Is anyone having trouble? Well, yes Carla, you would be having trouble. Let Terry help you. Anyone else…..” and so it would go for ten minutes or so until everyone found the verse. So much easier to just say, “Turn to John chapter seven and verse five.” Even so, Ed would still be in First John and wondering why he couldn’t find it, but that is OK.

          The Psalms, however, are different. The Book of Psalms is the song book for the Jews. Like our songs, they are written in verses. In the language they were written in, Hebrew, they have meter and rhythm and rhyme. The 119th Psalm has twenty two song verses which are each broken down into eight Bible verses. Each song verse begins with a character, or letter, of the Hebrew alphabet, of which in old Hebrew they had twenty two letters. Each verse of the song has eight distinct lines in it, which breaks down into our Scriptural verses. To explain this, let me use our song ‘Amazing Grace.’ Our hymn book has five verses. Imagine singing a song that has twenty two! Anyway, just verse one: Amazing grace! How sweet the sound, that saved a wretch like me. I once was lost, but now am found, was blind, but now I see. That verse has seven different lines of thought in it. If you were breaking it down in the manner that our Bible is written, it would be one song verse with seven divided lines, or verses, in it. All twenty two song verses in Psalm 119 have eight lines in them, which are broken down, in our Bible, into eight Scriptural verses. If you are having trouble with that, it is OK. It is just for explanation purposes and has no real bearing on the this blog.

          This Sunday’s sermon comes out of Psalm 119. Also, the reading for this week comes out of Psalm 119, just two different places in that one Psalm. As I was putting this week’s reading and sermon together, I was struck by something unusual. The reading is Psalm 119:105-112 and the sermon reading is Psalm 119:9-16. In both cases, every Scriptural verse has either the name ‘Lord’ in it or a pronoun referring to the Lord. You or Your or, depending on your version, Thee or Thine or Thou. Of course, the whole Bible points us to the Lord, but where else are there eight verses in a row that specifically mention the Lord? And yet, here was a single chapter in the Bible that has two sections like that. I was considering this on the drive in this morning (in case you wonder what the pastor thinks about in idle moments, it is stuff like this) and I began to wonder if there might be another section of eight verses like this in Psalm 119. So, when I got to my desk, I read the chapter. EVERY VERSE IN PSALM 119 REFERS TO THE LORD OR GOD IN SOME FORM, EITHER NAME OR PRONOUN. In a single song verse, which is eight of our Biblical verses, there are eight to sixteen mentions of the Lord. The Psalmist was completely focused on the Lord. When he mentioned himself, it was to point out how good the Lord had been to him. Another thing that makes this really interesting to me is that there are twenty two song verses, each beginning with a letter from the Hebrew alphabet, starting at the beginning and going through to the end. This is their alphabet song that they used to teach their children their alphabet and, at the same time, fill them with the goodness of God.

          OK. That is interesting, but how does that fit with us today?

          Godly Jews were completely sold out to the Lord. There were, of course, Jews who were greedy and underhanded and far away from God, but the Godly Jew was a true soldier of the Lord. In reading the 119^th Psalm, we see the Psalmist went to the Lord with everything before stepping out and then he stepped boldly. Now, let’s contrast this with Godly Christians in the 21^st century.

          Before you bought that car or truck you now own, did you pray about it and did you buy what God wanted you to have, or what you wanted to have? Does your appearance edify God or are you simply comfortable? Do your actions and language glorify the Father, or do your actions and language just relieve your stress? Did God have one set of expectations for the Old Testament believer and another set of expectations for the New Testament, and modern, believer? Obviously, no. Godliness is Godliness.

          It shows up in our thinking. We had two mass shootings last week, one in Dayton and another in El Paso. Lots of people killed. In addition, there were the regular dozen or so shot and killed in Chicago and other places. It has become a political issue. But one thing everyone would agree on is that this stuff has to stop. Stronger laws, remove all guns, more background checks, increase vigilance on the mentally ill. More police, stop video games, curb movie violence….it just goes on and on.

          Here is a thought; back in the old days when Godly Jews were completely sold out to God and would do whatever He wanted, there was this verse written: 2 Chronicles 7:14, If my people who are called by my name humble themselves, and pray and seek my face and turn from their wicked ways, then I will hear from heaven and will forgive their sin and heal their land. Keep in mind, this was written to Godly people giving them instruction on how ton bring their nation back to God. They understood the personal sacrifice required to be His people. What if the president used this verse and said we must all devote ourselves to prayer? People would laugh themselves silly. For one thing, Christians in our world today are not known for their prayer lives. Marching on Washington to protest abortion, flocking to hear preachers promising them health and wealth if they just have faith, sneaking around to have their fun. This is what the world knows about God’s people. A vulgar and foul mouthed president is supported by religious leaders. That is what the world sees. Someone would say, and they would be right, who in government is humble? No, you couldn’t use this verse. You might say we need to bring prayer back to school, but then our kids would be praying to whatever god the teacher specified. You might get worked up over cashiers not saying Merry Christmas and feel good about yourself. You might turn your radio up so that your Christian music can be heard on the street. But those things will not heal our land.

          I consider myself part of God’s people. I need to humble myself before the Lord, just like the writer of Psalm 119. Everything I do needs to be done with God’s will first and foremost on my mind. I need to give it completely over to God. I need to pray without ceasing, as Paul said. I need to seek God out in every way. I need to turn from my wickedness. Me. I have to do that if I want my land to be healed.

          “But,” you ask. “how do we get the nation on board?” We do not. We are responsible for ourselves. We cannot control others. What happens to them is between they and God. We have to do this ourselves.

          My high school had a rifle team and they had shooting matches against other schools. The kids on the team brought their rifles and ammunition to school on the bus. The kids that drove to school all had rifle racks in the back windows of their trucks and during hunting season those racks would have guns in them. In my lifetime, that has ended. If we as Christians will put aside our worldliness and devote ourselves to Godliness, we will see change. Slowly, gradually, but change. No president, no Senator, no member of the House, no local politicians, no law….nothing will ever make a difference. But, God’s people can make a difference.

          We need to be humbled before God. Next we need to pray and seek His face, which means we have to ask for His will, not our own. And then we need to turn from our sin. Actions, language, even thoughts of evil. Knowing we are not perfect, but at least striving for His way. Things will not change on the spot nationally, but our lives will begin to change for the better.

          This isn’t a Democrat thing or a Republican thing or a liberal thing or a conservative thing. It is a Christian thing and is our responsibility.  

          Serious stuff today. If you are not up to reading some serious stuff, go to https://www.gocomics.com/comics/a-to-z  This is the comic collection I read every morning and I rarely go away without a smile somewhere along the way.

          From 1983 to the very last day of 2006 I was a pastor. Before that I was a Youth pastor and, believe it or not, a music leader for eight years. A lot of things changed in my life beginning in 1983. My responsibility base expanded greatly, as did the challenge level. As a pastor, I was thrown into everything. Before, I had the luxury of watching my pastor deal with all the issues. When I became the pastor, it was all different.

          Funerals, weddings, counseling, organization, innovation (but only certain innovation because the people had always done things in a certain way and saw no reason to change). You could begin the day with a perfectly set schedule and end the day wondering what it was you had done that day.

          In church life, of course, death is a constant. Over those 23 years I had dealt with all manner of death. Disease, old age, accident, suicide, even murder; whatever way a person can die, I had seen it during those years of pastoring. But it wasn’t constant. I seem to remember once averaging it out and we had suffered, as a church, an average of six deaths a year. I remember one year we had zero deaths as a church! I was always on call at funeral homes in town to do funerals for people who had no church, so I always did between thirty and forty a year. But the actual church wasn’t so bad.

          But then, in 2007, I began working at a funeral home. All of a sudden, the things that had made up my life fell away and I was left with dealing with death alone. Death and grief. I actually enjoyed the work and I really feel as though I helped a lot of people, but it drains you as time goes by.

          Early on, we had four funeral directors, but only one of those was a mortician. That is the person who can legally embalm and prepare a body for the casket. The other three directors were strictly there to conduct the funerals. The mortician/funeral director was always swamped, so I was taught how to do a lot of things. Legally, I couldn’t embalm, but I could do just about everything else. One of those things is called ‘setting features.’ Almost everyone who comes into a funeral home needs to have their eyes and mouth closed and sealed, their facial features relaxed, any tubes taken out and a dozen other things. A good mortician (and we had the best) can even put a little smile on their face. Mostly, the mortician set the features, but there were times, when we were really busy (seemed like a constant) or when the deceased was going to be cremated and the family was going to get to view them for just a bit, when I would set features. It sounds worse than it is. Not everyone has the stomach for it, but it never bothered me.

          First thing each morning we had a meeting to schedule the day out. On the morning in question we were extremely busy. I had a lot to do. We had three funerals going that day. The only saving grace was that there had been no death calls during the night. We all sat down with our coffee for the meeting.

          “OK, first things first. Pastor,” Everyone still called me Pastor because that was the only way they had ever known me. “You are off the first funeral.” I was supposed to drive one of the vehicles and now I wasn’t. I gave the boss a questioning look. “We got a case in from the coroner last night. Forty year old woman, self inflicted gunshot to the head, family in at eleven. I cannot get to her and she needs to have features set and any cranial repair done. She will be cremated, so no embalming. I will also need you to talk to the family. I am really sorry to do this to you.” My standard reply, “Not a problem.”

          But it was a problem. I could not stand suicides. We had a nephew that committed suicide several years before this and the pain it put the family through was beyond believable. Since coming to the funeral home a few years before I had encountered several suicides. They always angered me. And it wasn’t because of a young life that was gone and wasted, it was because the family was so devastated. It seemed to me the one doing the suicide wasn’t the real victim. It was the family. Now, another. And after putting the pieces back together (literally) I would have to table that anger and talk with the family.

          When the meeting ended, I asked my boss what shape she was in. “I don’t know. Haven’t seen her. The coroner tells me she is set up on the main table. But, it was a gunshot to the head. Really, I am sorry you have to handle this one.” “Not a problem.”

          I dropped my coat and tie off at my desk and headed to the prep room. Only one body was there, a sheet pulled up over her face. I pulled the sheet back and looked into the face of a very pretty lady. No blood, no little pile of bone from an exit wound, no hole in the temple. Honestly, I thought they were goofing with me, that the young lady was not dead. But she wasn’t breathing and she was very cold. She was dead, but there were no gunshot wounds. I looked around for another body. There were none. Her eyes were closed, her mouth was shut, there was no tension on her face. Then I noticed a speck of blood at the corner of her mouth. I forced her mouth open and saw the bullet hole in the roof of her mouth. No exit wound in the back of her head, so she had shot herself in the mouth with, probably, a .22 caliber weapon. It had probably got to her skull and just didn’t penetrate. I closed her mouth and just stood there.

          The door opening startled me. The county coroner walked in. He looked at me and said there was one more vial of blood to draw he had forgotten about. “You know, I had the same reaction you are having. There are no drugs in her system, no alcohol, nothing that would make her temporarily stupid. She had just hung up the phone from her mother and they had been making plans for a niece’s birthday party and she had really been excited. Her husband had already left for work and she was getting ready to go to the job she loved. It is creepy.” I looked at the coroner. “So, what happened, doctor?” “Best guess, snap suicide.” H saw by my look I had no idea. He shrugged. “She hangs up from her mother. Going to work. She is looking for something, probably her keys. She opens the junk drawer and there is a low caliber pistol. She looks at it. Now, I would bet that when you talk to the family you will find she has some worrisome thing in her life. She picked up the gun and something snapped in her mind.”

          That changed my whole thought process on suicide. I began to read about it and go deeper and deeper into it. For one thing, I think ‘snap suicide’ was his word for it, but it is descriptive. I had been looking at suicide from a pastor’s perspective. How it affects the ones left behind. My anger was directed at the deceased as I sought to help the living. Although suicide is largely something that is done by the young and often done for attention, it does affect all age groups. And it is increasing.

          Suicide is the 10^th leading cause of death in the country, among all ages. 45,000 people will take their own lives this year. 14% of all high schoolers have gone so far as to make a suicide plan, figuring out how to do it and even writing a note. Obviously, not all 14% go through with it, but they consider it. Females will consider it more than males, twice as often as males, but males will actually do it more often. Four out of five suicides among teens are male. When an attempt fails, the individual is often damaged for the rest of their lives. Bullets do not always kill, hanging may lead to brain damage, drug overdose may also lead to brain damage. I was once asked to visit a man in the hospital who had attempted suicide by taking a power drill to the top of his head and drilling into his brain. Once the bit got into his brain, he lost control and dropped it, and he lived. He could follow you with his eyes, but that was it. He could not move and he could give you no demonstration that he was hearing you. Nothing. And, something rarely considered, the medical costs nationwide for treating failed suicides is in the neighborhood of 60 billion dollars and a lot of insurance plans do not cover suicide attempts.

          There is a feeling among people that anyone attempting suicide is crazy. Let’s just say they have momentarily taken leave of their senses. And that is not always true, either. Suicide is a complicated thing, usually arrived at when one gets to the point they cannot go on. But that is not always true. I think it is on the rise because life is more and more complicated and we have so devalued life in this country that living is not as important as it once was. We have states now where it is legal to kill a baby after it is born and still call it an abortion. A person can be playing a very real seeming video game and, when they run out of lives, they can reset. You don’t really die. Our culture is, in many ways, dehumanizing. Suicide can often seem the only way out.

          I didn’t have to do anything to the forty year old woman. I could not have set her features any better than they were. I led the family into the room where I had placed her and I allowed them to have their time. Then we returned to the conference room and we began to talk. Since I was ‘Pastor Wade’ rather than the funeral director they would be dealing with later, I was able to ask some questions. It seems that she had always wanted children, but was unable to conceive. It didn’t bother her husband all that much, but it was deep seated with her. The gun wasn’t where it normally was and, when she had hung up with her mother, no doubt a little blue from planning a birthday party for her niece when she would have loved to have been planning a party for her own daughter, she saw the gun and something happened in her mind. If the gun hadn’t been there or if her mother had still been on the phone or if her husband hadn’t gone in early, nothing would have happened. The woman’s mother looked at me that morning and said, “You have to believe me, nothing like this has ever happened in our family!”

          Be aware of what is going on. Children, teens, young adults, aging parents. Anyone. Don’t be blind to the possibility. Come and talk to me. It could be going on with you or someone you love. Believe me when I say, it is a lot easier dealing with it before it happens than it is after it happens.

          Over the last 25 years or so I have picked a lot of passages for various liturgists to read during a service. So many times on a Sunday morning I have had a reader come to me and say, “Why did you give me this passage with all these hard words?” For some reason they always think that I am gunning for them. I once wanted a passage out of Isaiah chapter 8 read. In the passage was the name Mahershalalhashbaz. Not once, but twice. He was the son of Isaiah. The Lord told Isaiah to name Mahershalalhashbaz this name because of the prophetic meaning of the name. The liturgist didn’t wait until Sunday. She called me Wednesday morning at 7AM. I told her that the prophetic part was important to the sermon. “WELL THEN YOU READ IT!” I have always liked that I have such good relationships with the liturgists. The point is, all of us at some time or another have been reading the Bible and wondered why they couldn’t name their kids Fred or George or Alice.

          We have talked about Biblical names before. The truth is, all languages have difficult names to pronounce to those of us who do not speak those languages. Because we give up on the names, we often give up on the things those people who had those names accomplished. One such person is Gaius Plinius Secundus, or, as he is more commonly remembered, Pliny the Elder.

          Pliny’s accomplishments were many. He was a Roman statesman, a philosopher, an author and an army and naval commander. In case you wonder how he could command both in the army and the navy, remember that in Roman times a naval attack consisted on ramming your opponent and then boarding the other ship. Basically, the army on water. By all accounts, he was brilliant. He was born about the time Jesus was turning twenty and only lived for some fifty six years. Much has been written about old Pliny and many sayings have been attributed to him. One such saying occurred one night while on a military campaign. The attack was to be at dawn and Pliny was with his generals having one last toast to victory. The generals were concerned because Pliny seemed preoccupied and distant. When asked about it, Pliny is supposed to have said, “I have traveled many places. I have served my emperor in many lands. I have been wondering where, after all these years, is my true home. I have decided.” Waving his goblet toward where his massive army slept, he said, “Home is where the heart is, and my heart is here.”

          Or so the story goes. ‘Home is where the heart is’ appears in many English speaking writings, but it goes back to Pliny and was first uttered in Latin. Interesting, isn’t it? I suppose that this is something that most people have contemplated when they have been far away. But Pliny had never really had a home in his adult years and so his feeling resonates.

          Of late, I have had a deep yearning for home. My problem, like Pliny, is that I really don’t know where home is. One writer said that home is where you long to be more than anywhere. I grew up in Perry, Ohio. A great little place to grow up. We hunted and fished. My friends and I would gather in a cow pasture during the summer and use dried cow patties for bases and play baseball when we were too young to play Little League. The fair was our big deal. The northern part of our township was the southern shore of Lake Erie and that had its own adventure. It was just a great place to grow up. But I don’t ever remember a time thinking I wanted to live in Perry forever. There was something else out there, even before I became a Christian. My future would not be in Perry.

          And it wasn’t. I have pursued a career that has taken us to many places. We lived in Tennessee, Florida, Alabama, Ohio and Indiana. There is a place in Tennessee where two great rivers, flowing out of the mountains and flowing very fast, come together and make a greater river. It is awesome to see. One afternoon we drove across Florida from the east coast to the west coast to see the ocean surge ahead of an approaching hurricane. Actually, quite frightening. Late one afternoon we were having a wedding rehearsal on the shores of Lake Erie when one of the little kids in the wedding pointed out to the lake. We turned and saw three waterspouts swirling out on the water, almost looking like they were playing. We cleared out because they are deadly, but it was a real sight. Marsha and I once had a tornado pass over our car, actually lifting us a few inches off the ground and turning the car around and once I drove in a hurricane, which was stupid. Everywhere we have lived has left incredible memories in my mind, but where is home?

          Janene asked me Sunday if the apartment was feeling like home yet. There is nothing wrong with the apartment and it makes more sense to live there than the house did, but no, it isn’t home. Actually, I feel more at ‘home’ when I sit down in my office or when I walk into a hospital room. Having someplace to live and having a home are two different things.

          On my computer, both at the apartment and at the office, I have Google Earth. For those who are not familiar, Google Earth takes satellite imagery from all around the world and gives you access to it. You can type in the street address of your house and in seconds you are looking down on it. You can view it from a mile or so up to a hundred feet. You can see the neighbor’s dog doing its business in your back yard. It isn’t a video, more like an aerial photo. Google Earth also has a huge fleet of cars with special cameras that shoot in 360 degrees mounted on their roofs that drive all over the country and in selected cities around the globe. Where those cars go, you can go and you can have a street level view. One evening this week I went back to Perry, my hometown. On some of the streets I could go to street level, so I took the tour. The Google car had last gone through in 2017, so the images were a couple of years old, but it was pretty neat. There was where Keith lived and there was Tony and Marvin’s old house. That’s where I used to live, but the house is gone now. Yes, pretty cool. But, I do not miss it. It isn’t home. Home is where the heart is, and my heart hasn’t been there in a long, long time.

          The older I get the more it seems I get farther away from home. And, yet, the older I get the more it seems I am getting closer to home. If home is really where the heart is, then somewhere not far off is where that place lies. A place where loved ones are and a place where one can take one’s shoes off and run in the grass. I can treasure everyone here, and I do, but where home is, that is where all believers will be one day, so one day all the ones I treasure here will be there. Life is hard here. How many times have you wished you could have said just one more thing to someone before they passed away?

          How important are words? Isaiah 62:4 says this, No longer will they call you Deserted, or name your land Desolate. But you will be called Hephzibah, and your land Beulah; for the LORD will take delight in you, and your land will be married. Hephzibah means to take delight in and Beulah means married. It was a phrase in the Hebrew that referred to a man taking delight in his wife and making a life with her and it meant ‘you will be home.’ The old song “Beulah Land” refers to that home as the best of places.

I'm kind of homesick for a country
To which I've never been before.
No sad goodbyes will there be spoken
for time won't matter anymore.

(Chorus)
Beulah Land, I'm longing for you
and some day on thee I'll stand.
There my home shall be eternal.
Beulah Land -- Sweet Beulah Land

I'm looking now across the river
where my faith will end in sight.
There's just a few more days to labor.
Then I will take my heavenly flight.

(Chorus)
Beulah Land, I'm longing for you
and some day on thee I'll stand.
There my home shall be eternal.
Beulah Land -- Sweet Beulah Land

          Many of you have been asking me how I am doing. I appreciate the concern because I know it is genuine. I know you are praying for me and I know that your prayers contain the power that wakes me each morning and causes me to get ready for the day. I also know that when you ask me how I am doing I usually do not go into any great detail and I know you understand that and let me get away with it. Like all things in my life, this has been a learning experience. (When my son was in high school, he got frustrated with me one day. Something had happened and I was explaining some point to him. He rolled his eyes and said, “Dad, does everything have to be a teaching moment?” For me, I guess so.) I understand now what it is to lose your spouse, not to death, but to someone else. In 1999, Marsha’s doctor told her she had maybe five years to live. It didn’t happen that way, but I did become very aware I was going to lose her. Each day was a special blessing. Then this all happened. I dare say, death might have been easier. You can look at death and see the cause. This, though, well, I still don’t know why it all happened. I have my own thoughts, but Marsha has never told me why. It doesn’t matter. She has filed for divorce and I suppose it will cost me, but I really don’t care about that at this point. However, I am not one to speak from the heart when it comes to myself. When I do relate something from my past it is usually one of those teaching moments my son found so bothersome. I am so used to others coming to me with issues. It is hard to tell others my woe. But you have asked, and I know you care……

          I mentioned it is a learning experience. It has been. Always, it didn’t much matter what was going on, I still got to sleep at night. Now I am finding out just how little sleep I can get by on. My hands are sometimes very painful from arthritis. Used to be, on Sunday morning I would sometimes have trouble buttoning the top button on my shirt and I would have Marsha do that for me. I have learned now that when I get to church, someone is always willing to lend a hand if I have a need. I have also learned that, if I want to, I can make my supper and eat it in front of the computer! Not all lessons are bad.

          But I have also learned that Satan is more than willing to hack away at me, taking my sorrow and frustration and using it to attack my mind. In the last few weeks, I have moved from the parsonage to a small apartment. Kitchen/eating area, living room and bedroom. A far cry from the parsonage. But perfect for me. No one person needs ten rooms and two bathrooms. I am fine with it. But I have also been working to get the parsonage cleaned out so it can be sold. With the heat I am taking a few days off from it, but I am getting closer. JUST SO YOU KNOW, THE FIRST WEEKEND IN AUGUST I AM HAVING A MOVING SALE. SOME FURNITURE, APPLIANCES, WALL HANGINGS, PRICED TO SELL. Anything left will be pitched.

          In doing this, I have been going through things. I had always assumed that when we finally downsized, we would go through these things together. I always assumed that I would have to spend a lot of time explaining to Marsha why we didn’t need this or that anymore. I was wrong. I am the one going through what were once treasures and keepsakes. This is where Satan is attacking. It has kept coming to my mind, “It wasn’t supposed to be like this.”

          For the most part, it is easy throwing stuff out. I bring the garbage can in and fill it up. Kind of fun in a way. But I still have to go through everything. That starts memories and the memories are, right now, not pleasant. Even the good memories, and there are a lot of those, are painful and sour right now. The words from Satan keep coming to my mind, “It wasn’t supposed to be like this.”

          The other day, it was stuff from seminary. This is where Satan was really hitting me. I was cleaning out an old filing cabinet. The first thing I found were the adoption paperwork for our son. That brought a smile. But, then, sadness. This has been really hard on him. I would rather do almost anything other than break his heart. Still, I had this paperwork. It just so happened that he called me at that moment. I told him about the paperwork and asked him if he wanted it. “Why would I need it? If you throw it out are you still going to be my Father?” It was a joke. He is 38. We are really not worried about some legal event happening. I told him to ask his wife. She might want have them. After we had talked, I went back to the pile. I came across my transcripts. Hardly earth shattering. Then I came across two of my three degrees. I don’t know where the bachelor degree, but my Masters and doctorate degrees were there. I just stared at them for a while. I was proud of those accomplishments at one time. Even had three nice frames for them and had them very nicely displayed on my office wall. They had meant something, they had been important. “It wasn’t supposed to be like this.” OK, what should I do with these? “It wasn’t supposed to be like this.” Yes, I know Satan! Back off!

          But then, the next item nearly made me fall. I set the degrees aside pulled up the next file folder. I opened it and stared at something I hadn’t seen in almost 30 years. Every spare moment for two years had been spent on this and I wasn’t supposed to even have it. “Divine Speaking; A Study in the Planning, Preparation and Presentation of a Sermon.” My doctoral dissertation.

          I have never been pleased with my preaching. My calling is to be a pastor. A preacher is a different critter and a different Spiritual gift. Early on, I started to get books by some of histories very best preachers so see what they said on the subject. When I got my Masters degree in Ministry, I figured my educational odyssey was done. But a particular professor urged me to go for more. In the doctoral program there was a subject called homiletics, which is the cool sounding name for preaching. This professor had plans for me. Marsha urged me to go on, too. “You’ve already read all the books. How hard could it be?” Yeah, right. The professor, Dr. Leroy Benefield, wanted me to get a doctorate. He was working to set me on a path. First, be involved in a church start. Second, pastor at least five years. Then, go into a really bad church situation and turn it around. Go from there to one of the Southern Baptist state conventions and specialize in working with churches that were having problems and then, at around age 40 or so, wind up in a Southern Baptist seminary as a professor, teaching students how to deal with all the problems churches can face. Dr. Benefield was a highly regarded Southern Baptist professor. I do not know why he took an interest in me. I really do not know. I do know that he meant more to me than any other man in my life, before or since. When he died, his wife sent me an e-mail asking me if I could come to Oklahoma (where they had retired to) and take part in his funeral. Dr. B saw a need for a course of study in crisis in the church and he thought I could be the person to implement that course. He had the pull to get me started. I would, however, need the doctorate.

          (And you folks thought you knew all about me, didn’t you?)

          So, I started the course of study in homiletics. After all, as Marsha said, how hard could it be? There was a lot of study involved. Several papers to write. More study involved. Required reading beyond what I had already read. The deeper I got into the project, the more important it became to me. It is what I thought about when I had time to sit and think. My wife and son got to where they didn’t want to hear it. I used to love to fish, but even that fell by the wayside. This was really important.

          Meantime, we were following the path Dr. Benefield started. Marsha and I were commissioned as home missionaries through the Southern Baptist Convention, working a new church start on the outskirts of an old steel town on the Pennsylvania/Ohio border. Then I pastored an established church for almost ten years. Then the church that had one of the worse problems I have ever seen. Fixed the problem. Now, all that was left was working at the State convention for a while and then a posting at a Southern Baptist college or seminary. And getting that doctorate. I was a few years behind, but I had pastored the church longer than planned

          The seminary had a rule. You submit the dissertation and it immediately became the property of the school. They could then use it as research for new text books or whatever without having to worry about paying anyone. When I started, that was no problem. But as it went along, I became very proprietary about the work. It was my creation. I didn’t want to give it up. Of course, I had to give it up. That was the whole point…..

          The dissertation had to be at least 100,000 words long. It had to have in it some new ideas and concepts. It had to be fully referenced and notated. And, particularly hard in a day when computers were not being used in homes and word processors were very expensive, it could have only five grammatical/spelling mistakes. All written on a typewriter. I found out quickly that if I wrote five pages and then went back and reread those five pages and found that I made a mistake in the second line on the second page, I not only had to rewrite the whole page, but since the rewrite would likely change the dimensions of the page, I would have to rewrite all four pages. But it was important. And the rule said that when I presented it, there was to be just the presentation.  

          Last August I stumbled across the rough draft. All inked up with corrections, written on an old typewriter, no references or annotations. It made me laugh then. But this was different. I sat down and recalled what I had done. I had made a complete copy of the original. I told myself that it was just in case something happened to the original. But, when it was all over, I had slipped the copy away into this file folder. I leafed through it there the other day. With sweat pouring from every pore, I looked at this piece of work that was the most complete scholastic work I had ever done, and the words came to me, “It wasn’t supposed to be like this.”

          Instead of taking that state level convention job, I felt God leading to another church. I was warned that taking that church would end my career path. We went with the church and abandoned the plan man had made. Satan has pricked me with that decision many times since, but it has been easy to shrug it off. Sitting there, however, and burning up, my wife living with another man and having just filed for divorce, the words came, “It wasn’t supposed to be like this.” No, to hear Satan tell it, by now, if I had wanted to, I would have been a retired seminary professor, probably living somewhere around either big water where you can’t see the far shore or mountains. There would have been no reason for the wife to have left and we would be quite happy. I would be in contact with former students and would be giving words of advice and encouragement. And I would have a dog. Buford. I certainly would not have been sitting there in the heat with a broken heart.

          But, that was Satan’s story. “It wasn’t supposed to be like this.” My mind worked it out pretty quickly. There was a plan. A great plan. But it wasn’t really God’s plan. It could, at this very moment, be much worse. I remember back to the moment that I walked away from that plan to go to the church God had for me. I struggled with it at the time, but I went His way. And I have never wanted to go back. Sitting there in the sweltering heat, I took a big slug of water and thought about it all. There are things that I wish had happened differently, but those are things out of my control. The things that I have done, that I controlled, I actually have no regrets over. I have followed the Lord. I wish Marsha had never left, I wish I wasn’t a diabetic, I wish some of my friendships and relationships had turned out differently. But, leaving the plan behind, doing what God wanted me to do, it is all good.

          I am good. Not great, mind you. I miss my buddy. But I cannot answer for what other people do and I wish harm on no one.

          I get notes quite often from people I have known. I got one on Monday from a lady named Ingrid. Out of the blue, really. “Old friend, the day is coming when you will hear the words, “Well done, thou good and faithful servant.” Does Ingrid know something I don’t know? HAH! I doubt I will merit that high praise, but it will not be for lack of trying.

          “How you doing, Pastor Larry?” “Oh, I guess I’m doing OK.”