Real Sacrifice

This time of year the world is aglow with all kinds of feel good stories.  A small respite amidst all the horror stories we're faced with 365 days a year if you will.  Its Christmas time, and why wouldn't you want to immerse yourself in acts of kindness, self sacrifice, and do good unto other stories. It warms the heart, makes the world feel good, and for a few moments restores a bit of faith in humanity.

This morning, a Facebook post showing a little mutt running beside an ambulance because his owner was picked up from his home due to a medical emergency. The driver stopped and picked up the pup who stood vigilant on duty by his masters bedside throughout the journey and at the hospital.  I'll admit, that is a wonder and show of ultimate sacrifice by mans best friend! My pooch would have held open the front door and seen me wheeled out only to run back inside to her warm blanky.  Chances are after 3 days she might sense my absence due to the empty bowl of kibble, (and the gravy on top if its a weekend).  I know she loves me. She just has a hard time showing it.

That little story really means diddly other than its cute and warm. Its an example of stuff we like to hear.  There's loads more. People sacrificing their time to help the homeless. People digging a little deeper in their jeans for a few extra bills in the Salvation Army kettle or the church plate.  Church communities rallying to fill up some hampers for the local needy. All good stuff and all good examples of the small sacrifices we can make. And it makes us and the world feel good about itself. Humanity in all its goodness on display.

But how poor are we if we believe that's the real meaning of sacrifice? The world is semi tolerant to a few songs about a baby Jesus, a nativity scene, and a church alit down the road.  But in all that, it is still ignorant about what true sacrifice really is, and what the "reason for the season" really means.  Don't get caught in the hubbub.

Do good by all means, and continue to give of your time, your money, and yourself. Our Lord demands that we do! But do not forget or push aside the real reason of sacrifice, and let that be on your heart and mind this season.  Christ the Savior, born to die so we might be saved. Believe it. It's very real, and it's for you, and its free.

Life In The Fast Lane

I love my morning commute. It gives me time to wake up, inject some java, enjoy a few pulls on the nicotine stick, and catch up on the daily exploits of organized professional pugilism on the ice, pitch, or gridiron. I've stopped listening to the local or national news long ago. That's just a lousy way to start your morning. Politics bore me, the murder rate per capita is never down, and home invasions never mean someone broke in to install a flat screen TV on your living room wall and leave behind treats for the pets.

These days I usually stay in the slow lane when I merge into the bloodstream they call Highway 1.  I love this lane, not because I'm slow (which I am), but because I get a real kick out of watching my fellow commuters in the other lane.  A while back I began making up stories about their lives based on their actions or facial expressions as they slowly pass by. This morning a poor fella driving a Honda had a haggled and panicked look on his face.  He got up this morning from a horrible nights sleep attributed to one too many wobbly pops with the boys and trips to the loo. He prided himself on avoiding his sons Tonka Truck on the way to the Kuerig, but wasn't so lucky because the sidestep
brought him right on top of the pile of yellow matter the dog deposited from devouring the leftover M&M's in the bowl from last nights event with the buds.  The white dots on the poor mans face suggested a lost battle against Sir Gillette, and I'm willing to bet the fro-hawk he was sporting wasn't intentional. I hope he makes it through the day

Directly (and I mean inches) behind this unfortunate fellow was an older behemoth Ford Pick Up with Alberta plates raised 20 feet in the
air. I envisioned a gun rack on the back window, a garter belt with fuzzy dice dangling from the mirror, and a tan nylon hanging off the rear hitch with two tennis balls suspended inside. I was dead wrong. Shame on me....
The nylons were blue. I couldn't see the driver but again, willing to barter my next meal he's probably 5' 3" , wears a John Deere hat backwards and answers to Chad or Bart.

Its a fun game, and don't deny it - you've all played it before; at the airport, the doctors office, or the local mall. But what scares me the most is the off chance I do happen to find myself in the fast lane and look to my right only to be met by the stare of a person who's sporting a smile and playing my  game. What does my face say?  Yours? Food for thought......Drive safe.

Long Live The Fly

There was one last fly left in the house.  I'm not sure what the lifespan of a common musca domestica is, but this one must have been over 100 in human years. Over that time I'm positive its taken one too many hits to the head from repeated efforts to break through the living room window, thinking freedom was only 3/16 of an inch away.  Imagine his horror (I'm pretty sure its a dude cuz I would do the same at that age), when he finds out its double paned.  He's gotten so large I swore I saw his shadow during a buzz-by. 

During his youth he fancied himself quite the swashbuckler.  I bet the lady flies though he was....um...well.....pretty fly (-:.....He was fast and daring, darting in and out of rooms, landing on your nose, buzzing around your ears while you tried to nap on the couch or had your hands in the sink.  Seventeen hundred square feet to romp at his pleasure and somehow he felt the need to only invade and habituate the immediate area we were occupying at any given moment.  Drove us nuts.  The dogs hated him, not only for the frequent sorties he flew to the food dish to dine and poop, but the times when he teased them into leaping and snapping catching nothing but thin air, desperate to end the charade.  They slept with one eye open most nights, and when sleep finally did come to visit, you could almost see them twitch at intervals, dreaming about Flyzilla terrorizing their home.

Over time the fly lost the vibrancy of youth. It became slower but still had the street smarts. We hung up an army of strategically placed sticky fly strips throughout the house.  Because of them our home bore the resemblance of a five year olds birthday party with streamers hanging all over it.  We caught a lot of flies, a few other winged creatures unknown to us, plus a few of my own hairs from midnight trips to the fridge for a glass of milk.  Through it all however our pesky roommate still managed to navigate his way through the sticky mess loaded with fallen comrades.

Another month passed, and the flytraps began coming down, each with its good share of protein firmly affixed.  Our house guest remained, but his journeys became less and less frequent. When we did see him on a given day, we would give him a casual wave in the hallway or a "hey, hows it goin" at the pantry door. Even the mutts stopped snapping at him and would just let the old fella pass by with nary a twitch of the ear.  I think we all did this out of mutual respect.

This morning I found him lying on the window sill.  A warriors last effort towards freedom.  I felt a profound sadness for him, having achieved so many things in flyhood, but in the end not understanding why he couldn't find that freedom through a clear expansive picture.  So close but yet so far!.........So it goes in flydom.

Heart To Heart

 I recently took a trip far away to visit an older convalescing brother.  He's on the mend from some major surgery that has had him holed up for several weeks.  He's out of the deep woods, but still has a few miles to go before he's back to his old self.  It was not a vacation, but rather a trip for the heart, one of those things that's good to do for the ailing, especially when its blood, and especially because he's dear.

I took the trip with another older brother (from the same mother), who turned out to be a fine travelling companion and a source of inspiration in his own way.  He's a great guy.  If you looked up the word "nice" in Webster's you would find his picture beside it.  He's the kind of guy that would say "Thank you so much for your hospitality", if you served him a stale digestive cookie and a glass of warm water.  He's a "cup half full" type, and the guy you want on your team when you're down 6-0. He's also the chap that dresses neat for any occasion, parts his hair the same way for the last 40 years, and cuts his toast and jam in 4 different quadrants, and eats each one with a fork and knife.  He' s the one that would make up the bed at a hotel before room service came along, plus wipe down the bathroom, and fold the towels, and still leave a tip at the end of his stay.  He'll say words like poop, fudge, and darn as substitutes for the expletives most of us would want to utter in certain situations.  A model of decency that boy....I'm jealous.

I'm not much like him at all

It's amazing how families turn out and how different one child can be from the next. Most parents
realize this at an early age, and I suppose there's both humour and grief in how that all manifests itself as siblings grow older.  Personalities often conflict, and many a family has been torn apart due to ballooning ego's, the unwillingness to truly forgive, and the hardening of hearts we won't allow to soften.  I'm thankful for a family that (for the most part) can put a lot of this aside and still be there for each other in times of need.  Oh, but that doesn't always mean things are rosy in Vanderville. We do still experience our share of spats, brokenness, sadness, and regrets. I'm not so sure that will ever go away completely. But that's alright, we're plugging along together.

My mom and dad have passed on some time ago, but like any parent I'm sure they would be happy this was so.  However, I'm thankful and confident that I have an eternal Father that delights in forgiveness, doing away with ego's, and the softening hearts.  I pray that you and others may see and experience this yourself one day! Take a moment to send a card or an email, or make a phone call and just say "Hey".

It's good for the heart.

Ode To The Aged

I don't know who gave old people the right to be crotchety. I'm not talking about old people my age, I'm talking about really old people that sit in creaky chairs, have lap dogs, and live in places that smell like apple cores, and don't get up for door bells anymore.  I suppose its because they've spent most of their life being kind, and pleasant, and courteous, that the tank is just empty now.  Too many years telling Mavis and Ed how beautiful their kids were, or gushing over ugly babies at the Church picnic.  I'm wondering if one day they just wake up and find out the fuel gauge is on "E" and decide to pull over and call it quits.

We know a handful of old people, and it always amazes me how frank they can be. I'm all for calling a spade a spade, and I think transparency and honesty in communication are beautiful things, but some of the silver hairs can sure take that to a whole other level. 

I know of a little old lady down the road living by herself in a modest modular home.  There's dust on her door bell, and a few grand kids toys strewn across the driveway that haven't moved since The Beatles broke up.   She's widowed, lonely and desperate for company, (I know because she told us, and gave us crap for not coming by). 

She leaves other hints, like the tiny family devotional, (dated 2010) we found stuffed in our mailbox today, with a note stating that we were quite welcome to come and discuss the contents if we were up to it.

We haven't up until this time, but decided today would be a good day to stop by and say hello, but only to make an appointment for the following day, so she could dust the counters and perhaps find the source of the smell that's been plaguing her home for the last week.  So up the steps we went, boldly going where few people go.  I think we took her by surprise, because she needed a few moments to get her faculties together.  At first I thought she would tell us that she wasn't interested in a vacuum cleaner, or that she doesn't believe "that Jehovah Witness hullybaloo", but as the cobwebs cleared she saw it was just the couple from down the street.  We stated our purpose for a short visit the next day, and she replied that "yes Seven O'clock would be fine, even though that's when I watch Jeopardy & Wheel Of Fortune"

Another older couple we used to visit was like a trip to the dentist. Slow and painful. We honestly tried our best to show interest, offer some words of encouragement, bring a little light to a long day. What we got in return was a cookie harder than a hockey puck, and a cup of tea.  I dare not ask for a little milk because they always felt the need to make a comment about the fact I'm a portly fella.

I'm going to be old like that one day. I already feel the attitude coming on a bit here and there, and I'm fighting it as hard as I can.  I don't want to be like that. I don't want people to visit me in my creaky chair because they feel they have to, and feel sorry for me, and laugh about me when they roll out of the driveway.  So I'm already planning.  There will be chocolate on the table, cold beer in the fridge, fresh squeezed orange juice, oven baked goodies, both with and without gluten (cuz I understand that's the rage). Oh, and a can of Febreeze and a Ten dollar bill for everyone that comes to visit. An extra two dollars if you bring kids.

No babies however. They're noisy and they stink. (-:

Laughter Is Not Dead

Joan Rivers is dead and Hollywood's celebrating.  Not because they are happy about it, but because Joan wanted it that way.  Joan Rivers, "The Madam" of comedy lived eight decades and one year, passing away from a seemingly routine surgery.  Only days before she died, Joan did an interview stating she wanted her funeral to be grand, full of laughter, music, and with paparazzi littering the red carpet.  Hollywood obeyed, and recently gave her the send off she asked for.

Joan Rivers was a shock "comedian". She pushed the envelope of comedy in every decade she performed and people revelled in it only providing more fodder for her act.  She was politically incorrect, vulgar, and knew few boundaries.  Nothing seemed sacred to her, and even in the end she mocked death and made it a laughing matter.  And oh, how Hollywood laughed along.  Headlines read  "Heaven is funnier now that Joan is there" or, "Joan is now center stage above". Late night comedy acts mocked and praised her at the same time while America glowed in the warmth and humour of it all. 

What a shame that comedy needed to stoop to the levels Joan Rivers portrayed, and what a shame that America followed along. It hasn't gotten any better, and with her death there will only be more standing in line to replace her and push the envelope even further. How low can we go!

Is comedy dead?

Its getting hard to find much funny anymore, and I admire those who are able to pull funny off without being offensive or vulgar.  Some have the ability of quick verbal wit, others with the power of the pen or keyboard, and some even through art or music.  They aren't known because they aren't mainstream, but I'm glad for them because we all need a good chuckle from time to time, or even that laugh that hurts the diaphragm, you know, the one where you cant catch a breath and feel your spleen is going to pop out of your ears?  In some way we all have the ability to illicit a chuckle or a smile.

Children do it the best! (Who can resist the uncontrollable laughter of a baby?) Mouths contort, and they begin to shake uncontrollably like a little rubber Gumby with no body control. Eyes light up in fascination. Priceless and innocent.

It takes some practice, and a little effort, but even the most stoic amongst us possesses the ability to make others smile. Give it a whirl today. Learn to laugh at things more, look for the irony in life, spot the beauty and the blemishes, and share them with someone you know. Laughter is indeed a great medicine, dispense freely, drink often.

Happy New Year

Our Canadian Geese are busying themselves with practising flying formations for migration to warmer climates. Look skyward on most given days this time of year and you'll see the familiar "V" pattern that affords them the best opportunity to reach their destinations in due time with the least amount of effort.  I enjoy watching them but often need to remind myself to duck under cover when a squadron flys overhead.  My car doesn't fare as well however, and its often the victim of these air attacks. 

It feels like New Years.

 Pope Gregory XIII introduced the "Gregorian Calendar" in 1582 according to lunar cycles and a bunch of other stuff he and his cronies felt were important to observe.  Its the one we use today, and I think they got it all wrong.  To me, the beginning of September always felt like New Years.  Summer vacation was over, school began, work and church activities resumed, weather began to change, many outdoor recreational activities ceased, days became shorter etcetera.
Parents scramble to gather school supplies, clothing that fits, and are preparing to release their children into the wild world of "school".  Facebook is plastered with pictures of children clutching lunch boxes, or burdened with back packs that contain survival packs, and the familiar yellow and black transports prowl the streets picking up the young-uns who are sporting one of three looks; anguish, glee, or indifference.  Or perhaps all of the above.


There's a certain amount of stress about it all. Gone is the freedom of the sand and beach, the glistening fresh rivers and the rod, the sun and the sprinkler, the fire pit and the hot dog, and all the good stuff summer brings. Life ramps up a notch or two, expectations to move forward with renewed commitments, to provide for our families, to try harder, are all on the forefront of our mind, and then for some who are burdened to fight with darkened minds, even during the sunny days, the changing of the season can also be particularly frightening as days get shorter and the notion of external darkness looms.

So to me, this is New Years.  Opportunity, renewal, sadness, reflection, anxiety, all rolled into one, along with a bucket of warm water and soap for the car. 

The Geese have it right.  They have learned to trust instinct and their dependence on each other. They don't know of their Creator like we do, yet every season we look skyward and we see the perfectly formed "V's", the stronger leading the weaker, the wind currents carrying them along, the knowledge their destination is sure. 

Matthew 6: 25, 26 ESV
“Therefore I tell you, do not be anxious about your life, what you will eat or what you will drink, nor about your body, what you will put on. Is not life more than food, and the body more than clothing? Look at the birds of the air: they neither sow nor reap nor gather into barns, and yet your heavenly Father feeds them. Are you not of more value than they?"

Welcome to another season of our Lord, Happy New Year (-: