The Place of Learning

I remember my first prayers.  They were prayed on my knees at my bedside.  My mother was kneeling beside me leading me and teaching me lessons I did not realize I was learning.  For sure I knew I was learning a simple children's bedtime prayer that children have probably been taught to pray since before time began.  I did not think much back then that I was being taught to kneel before the God to whom I was praying. At the time I could not really get my mind around God which, of course, is still true.  I learned that prayer was a part of life.  

I am not sure how much explanation was given about why I should pray.  I was told to do it and taught how to do it by someone I trusted.  No more was needed.   One of the things our children still need are lessons in prayer.  More than just lessons, they need examples.  They need to know that praying is not just something done in church on Sunday, but something which is important enough to do every day.  

The one who has the most influence in this teaching are the parents they love and trust.  Parents today invest inordinate amounts of time taking their children to ball fields, dance studios, and all kinds of child oriented programs.  They all can be teachers of life lessons, but when our children reach adulthood and get knocked down by the the loss of a parent, or a spouse, or a divorce, or the loss of a job they need to have memories of learning to pray and learning the importance of faith in God.  The one place any child learns these important life lessons is in their home.  Their parents are the best teachers. 

Breathing Deeply

A few days ago I found myself settling into a mindset to be more intentional about the discipline of reading the Psalms.  Anyone who reads the Bible reads these Spirit inspired writings of David.  There are some people who memorize the whole collection of 150 Psalms, but most of us have memorized but a few and they are usually our favorites.  Of course, the 23rd Psalm is probably the most memorized of them all.   I have still not forgotten my embarrassment the Sunday morning in my first church when I was leading the congregation in "The Lord's Prayer" and somehow wandered into reciting the 23rd Psalm!  

While I have read and studied the "The New Revised Version"  of the Bible longer than I can remember, I must confess that my spirit wants to return to the old "King James Version" when I start reading the Psalms.  Another preferred option for reading the Psalms is "The New Jerusalem Bible."  The  newer and more contemporary versions of the Bible with their propensity for the trendy and familiar just seem to miss out on the cadence of the more ancient renderings.  

The Psalms are poetry for the soul.  They are not to be read hurriedly.  Some suggest reading them aloud so that the mind not only reads but hears.   When we slowly become immersed in them, they have a way of settling into the cracks, fractures, and broken places of our spirit.  They have such healing power which is why we find ourselves returning to them again and again. Maybe my spirit is not the only one being drawn back to these sacred words which have the power to heal, to lift our hearts in praise, and slow our hurried pace so we can breathe deeply one more time.  

The Walk

Watching the Buddhist monks in their Walk for Peace brings to mind other walks.  One walk remembered is Christian's walk which John Bunyan recorded in "The Pilgrim's Progress."   The monks are walking from Fort Worth, Texas to Washington, D.C.  and their walk seems rather direct compared to Christian's walk from the City of Destruction to the Celestial City.  It is certainly direct when compared to the walk I started nearly sixty years ago.   

I was a month away from being eighteen years old when I came to that moment which marked the first step of my walk with Jesus. It was a journey that literally began on my knees as I knelt beside my bed and gave my life to Jesus.  It was the first time I gave my life to Him and did not take it back.  Like the walker, Pilgrim, I have found my share of diversions and temptations.  I have climbed mountains that did not need climbing, wallowed around in boggy sloughs, and wandered off the straight and narrow way. There were too many times when I lost sight of where I was being called to go.  

All I can say is that I have known a lifetime of God's mercy and grace.  There has been no patience, forgiveness, and love in my life like  that which God has given me over the years.  There have surely been those times when He should have given up on me, dropped me like a hot potato, and said, "Enough!" but He has been everlastingly faithful and steadfast.  Since the day I was conceived in my mother's womb, and perhaps even before, He has called me son and one of His.  On this new day of a new year, I know I have been blessed beyond what can be measured and I am deeply grateful to Him for not giving up on me as I walked somewhere on the road behind Him.  

Letting Go

As important as it is to welcome the new year, it is even more important to say goodbye to the old one.  Carrying too much with us will prove to be too much of a burden.  A book entitled "The White Stone" with the subtitle, "The Art of Letting Go," by Esther de Waal came my way a few years ago and a few days ago I found myself pulling it off the shelf for the important words she had to say about moving from what is past into what is ahead.  Life is full of those times of transition when we stand at a threshold moment.  

The most profound moment of letting go surely comes as we lose a loved one.  Whenever we experience the death of a spouse, or a child, or a parent or someone loved deeply, we find ourselves in an immobilizing void.  A part of us wants to stay, to cling to the things and the memories of the past while another part of us is pulling us into whatever it is ahead.  The past is never where we can live.  Ahead is where we are being given to live.  It is always hard to let go even when our head tells us letting go is choosing to live.  Such is the kind of moment afforded to us as we stand now at the edge of an ending.  While the Apostle Paul wrote about Christ making us into new creations, it is not something once done and over.  

Every day we are given the opportunity to gather all our life experiences and decide how we are going to let those things be used by God to guide us into the future He is unfolding before us.  It is appropriate; therefore, to think of ourselves being made new every day.  Every day is a moment of letting go of yesterday so we can step into the day unfolding.  Every day is a moment for letting go and so it will be until we finally let go and take hold of the hand of the Christ who is preparing us each day for the Home He is preparing for us in the heavenly place.  

Listening in the Silence

Most visitors to the farm which provides home comment about the quiet.  It is a place gifted with quietness.  I am grateful to be able to walk in it, be immersed in it, and to hear what it teaches me.  When I leave here for more urban confines, I feel like the young boy who walked into a noisy restaurant with ear coverings.  Away from here I struggle with the sounds and sights that overload my senses.  What most people do not hear in the quiet silence of a place like the farm are its voices.  The silence has its own sounds.   

The first voice that speaks in the silence is the one which speaks about the absence of the accustomed noises and sounds.  It is always amazing how what is not present can speak so loudly.  One thing required to hear the voices in the silence is time.  There must be a willingness to sit silently in the silence in order to hear what it is saying.  To hear in the silence, it is necessary to allow the silence to come to us.  Straining to hear is of no avail.  Its voice is heard in the waiting for it to come to us.  Actually, what can be heard in the silence is not so much about "what" but "Who."  God is the One who lingers in the quietness, but it is a mistake to think that He lingers only in the external silence.  

It is an easy thing to shut down the noise makers around us; however, it is another thing to shut down the noise that comes from within.  Being immersed in the silence teaches us that we cannot hear it speaking if our minds and hearts are cluttered with the regrets of yesterday, the preoccupations of today, or the worries about tomorrow.  The real silence to be known is not out there, but in the heart where God dwells and from which He seeks to speak with a voice that is as soft and as powerful as the Wind.

Time for a Phone Call

Now that the Christmas season with its focus on gift giving is past,  there is one more gift which each of us might consider giving.  It will not be noticed in our check ledger, neither will it show up on our credit card statement.  It will require no bows and ribbons.  It will require a few minutes to give, but is guaranteed to bring a smile that will last much longer than it takes to give it.  There will not be any need to worry about size, or saving receipts in case of a return.  It is a simple gift.  One came my way today and I find myself turning it over and over again in my heart with such gratitude.  

This gift is not going to be delivered by the post office or amazon prime.  It can ony be delivered by folks like you and me.  Pick up the phone before the day ends and call someone who has blessed you in some way in your spiritual journey, or maybe someone whose prayers have sustained you through some hard place this year, or, perhaps, someone who is remembered as an individual who invested their life in yours long years ago.  The gift of being appreciated and unforgotten is an immeasurable gift.  

I often think of my high school English and literature teacher who died before I came to the place of realizing how different she made my life.  She saw in me what I could not see and she was used by God to prepare me for my ministry in ways I am sure she could not imagine.  I wish I could call her, but such is now impossible.  What I do know is that there are others who have touched my life in the same way that your life has been touched.  Maybe it is time for a phone call.

'Twas Three Days after Christmas

'Twas three days after Christmas,

'Twas Sunday to be exact,

Nary a creature was stirring, 

Everyone was asleep in the house.

Bows and ribbons were out on the street,

Dumpsters lids were open gaping mouths

stuffed with far too much to eat.  

 

The church bell high above chimed eleven,

the hardiest of saints filled the seats,

but only a few, for most were fast asleep 

dreaming of tables filled with cakes and pies,

new kitchen towels and more red ties.

Here and there a soul roused at the bell

only to make themselves more snug in the bed.

 

Jesus rose from the lifeless nativity scene,

He came to life making quite a clatter,

He looked and saw no shepherds and wise men,

and certainly not a sleeping saint like me

too hungover with Christmas egg nog

to make even a reluctant appearance

in the house where He is to be worshiped this day.