This is a story for children of all ages.
It may exist in different versions, by different titles, with different settings.
I’ve never seen an author’s name.
It goes something like this:
It’s early Christmas morning.
It’s still dark. And it’s cold.
Father John pulls his hood a little tighter around his ruddy face.
He shuffles his way through the fresh snow toward the church.
There’s still much to do before the first Mass.
He smiles at the spotlight shining on the crèche in front of church.
He is so proud of the nativity scene. It’s the most beautiful in town.
But then the smile changes into a frown.
Father John sees something terribly wrong:
the Baby Jesus is missing!
The old priest cannot believe his eyes.
He hastens his step to have a closer look.
But it’s true: the crib is empty! Only some tufts of hay are left.
The priest is upset and angry. With quick little steps now he enters the church.
Someone stole the Christ Child! Who and why?!
Someone who was jealous?
Now the day is ruined. People will point at the empty spot.
Maybe some will laugh.
The priest grows red with shame and indignation.
Then he runs up to the church bell rope and begins to pull with short angry jerks.
The people must know that the Holy Infant has been stolen.
They must begin at once to look for the lost Baby Jesus!
And they will find the thief who has done this unholy deed!
The anxious priest hurries outside again.
Here and there people have come outside.
They wonder why the church bell is ringing so early and with such an angry sound.
“Someone stole the Baby Jesus, someone stole the Baby Jesus!
Find out who stole it and bring it back at once!” cries the priest.
Then, as fast as he can, the old priest begins to run up one street and down another.
To everyone in sight he shouts to find and bring back the missing baby.
At last the priest nears the church again.
And there, just ahead of him, he sees a little boy pulling a bright red wagon behind him.
His eyes grow large and his pace quickens.
On that wagon he spots something familiar.
And now he sees it clearly: it’s the Baby Jesus!
The priest runs to the little boy, grabs him roughly, and demands:
“What do you think you’re doing with the Baby Jesus on your wagon?!”
The little boy looks at the angry priest, smiles up at him, and answers:
“Well, Father, you see I got this wagon for Christmas.
And I wanted to give Baby Jesus the first ride for his birthday present.
The old priest does not move now. He looks at the boy for a long moment.
Then a big smile lights up his flushed face,
He bends down to the little boy and gently asks:
“My son, may I help you pull the Baby Jesus?”
from Talking with God, available at Schulers
and Baker Books in Gr. Rapids, ebooks,
Amazon, and at exxelpublishing.com
Tuesday, December 20, 2011
Saturday, December 10, 2011
A Christmas Story
Note: the story that follows was written quite a while ago by a good friend, Herman de Jong. He has passed on now, where, in heaven above, he's in rapture by the pure, perfect music of Christmas.
Since it was originally written in Dutch, I've translated and adapted it for this Blog.
“From Heaven Above”
It happened a long time ago and far away: 1944, in Holland. I was 12, and it was the day before Christmas. My best friend was Johnny who had become my neighbor a few months earlier. Our parents became friends too, even though the Lefferts were Roman Catholics and my parents were Reformed.
Johnny had invited me to come to early mass with him on Christmas Day. I wanted to go, of course, and begged my parents for permission. But my father didn’t like the idea. To be friends was okay, but to attend each other’s church was more than friends had the right to expect from each other. Mother finally persuaded Dad to let me go, since I would be back in time to attend our own church service.
At five o’clock on Christmas morning, Johnny and I ran through the flurrying snow. Johnny was wearing a new pair of high shoes for the special occasion, while I wore my ordinary wooden shoes; Mom said they’d be warmer. Since the snow packed well this morning, we decided to see who could pack the most snow under his shoes. We slowed down, and carefully, step by step, we tried to get as much to stick as possible. I kept winning, since snow sticks better to wood than to leather.
But Johnny didn’t like losing. He kept trying harder and harder, until it dawned on him that I was winning because of my klompen. “I could easily beat you if I had klompen too,” he said. I didn’t agree, of course. In fact, I challenged him to give me his shoes and I’d show him I could still beat him.
So it happened that on the way to early mass, two cold but proud little fellows sat down in the snow to exchange their footwear. But before we could continue the Christmas Day competition, a large Catholic family caught up with us. One of the girls called out, “Hey, Johnny, you better hurry, ‘cause the service starts in five minutes and you still have to change to your choir robe. We’re late too, ‘cause Mommy overslept.”
We ran the rest of the way till the cathedral loomed straight ahead through the early morning shadows. Black figures hurried over the white snow and then under the yellow glow of the gas lanterns that lined the sidewalk. “You have to go through the big door,” panted Johnny, “I have to go through the door of the sacristy ‘cause I have to sing in the choir.”
I followed the crowd through the big doors and landed in the narthex of the packed church. Behind an ornate railing stood a group of Protestant visitors, jostling each other for the best view of what was to come.
As for myself, I stood close to the entrance and watched people dip their hands in a little bowl and then quickly make the sign of the cross. Without thinking, I decided to participate too, but the tall man with a terribly long nose (I can still see the drip hanging at its end) hissed at me: “Keep your hands out of there, you’re not Catholic, are you?” I have always wondered whether “Mr. Nose” was Catholic or Protestant.
Thoroughly frightened, I quickly pulled back among the visiting Protestants and wormed my way gradually to the railing. Just in time too. A Santa Claus type stood before the altar and bowed so low that his nose must have nearly touched the floor. But I didn’t see Johnny anywhere. All of a sudden I remembered that he was still wearing my clogs. At least his feet were warm; my toes in Johnny’s icy shoes were freezing. I wanted to jump up and down to warm them a bit, but the memory of “Mr. Nose” kept me quietly standing in place.
I almost jumped, though, when the organ suddenly started. The music was terribly loud; no wonder--I was standing right under the pipes. The people in the sanctuary rose and began to sing. I didn’t recognize the tune, but I remember clearly what a tremendous impression that music made on me. The sound seemed to climb along the whited walls, higher and higher, only to cascade down again and rejoin the leading melody. I stood entranced, and I shivered, more from the music, I think, than from the cold.
That must’ve been my first experience of beauty—an aesthetic experience, as they call it. I don’t remember much of the mass itself. I didn’t understand the strange language nor the strange rituals among what I thought of then as the Santa Claus figures. Besides, I was too cold, and the whole service seemed much too long. It was what happened toward the end of it that I have remembered so clearly through all these years.
The organ played again, very softly now, and then a clear girl-soprano voice rang through the cathedral. I noticed that all around me people began to listen with rapt attention to the beautiful melody of “From heaven above to earth I come.”
I held my breath. The pure, delicate voice of the singer seemed to fill that whole immense cathedral. It seemed to float through space like a fine-bodied swallow. It bounced off the walls and as the notes went higher it seemed to disappear into the vaulted dome and out into the outside air until it became an angel choir of glorious music. I don’t know how to explain it exactly; it’s hard to find words for such feelings. But it filled me with such great gladness that I wanted to run with the shepherds over the hills around Bethlehem, arms flailing like a windmill, faster and faster, to see Jesus, my Jesus.
After the service I waited for Johnny at the door of the sacristy. “How did you like it?” he asked. He didn’t wait for my answer but pulled me inside. Beneath a candle-lit statue of Mary we exchanged our footwear. I followed his example when he crossed himself. “You didn’t need to do that,” said my friend, “you aren’t Catholic, are you?”
A couple of days later Johnny was terribly sick with pneumonia. He had kicked off my klompen and in his wet socks had followed the bishop into church. And there he had stood, on the stone floor, throughout the long service.
I moped around the house, feeling guilty about Johnny’s illness and resentful that my best friend had to get sick during Christmas vacation. We prayed for him at mealtimes, and I noticed that Dad’s prayers became increasingly more urgent.
One day, Mrs. Lefferts, pale and fatigued from many nights of interrupted and uneasy sleep, stopped by. Johnny wanted me to come over. “Is Johnny getting better, then?” I asked eagerly. Softly she answered, “With God all things are possible. Please come along quickly.”
I didn’t know what to say at first when I got there. Johnny was so weak; he could hardly speak. After a while I told him about the girl’s solo and how beautiful I thought it had been. “That was no girl,” whispered Johnny, “listen to this.” As he began to sing, very softly, I heard the same voice, the same melody. I couldn’t believe it. When he finished there was mischief gleaming in his eyes. “Well?” he asked. His voice was so soft now, I hardly heard him. But I tried to tell him something then of what I had felt during his singing that Christmas morning.
When I finished, he reached out a thin, pale hand. Impulsively and self-consciously at the same time, I took his hand in mine, and I whispered that I prayed for him and that I was sure Jesus would make him well again. I felt the pressure from his hand as he whispered back, “From heaven above to earth he came….”
Jesus did make Johnny well again. We stayed friends for a long time till finally we moved too far away from each other. But I’ve never forgotten Johnny. And I’ve often thought that the whole Christmas event became real to me in that breathless moment when I followed that graceful swallow far beyond the cathedral. It was at that moment that I knew without the slightest doubt that Jesus came as a Child for me and that as a Man he had to die for me. And when in bygone years I sometimes had to struggle through thoughts and experiences that shook my faith, I always returned through my memory to that place and to that moment when my white-knuckled hand hung on to the wrought-iron railing, and a gentle Savior made me hear again that pure girl-soprano voice: “From heaven above to earth I come!”
Since it was originally written in Dutch, I've translated and adapted it for this Blog.
“From Heaven Above”
It happened a long time ago and far away: 1944, in Holland. I was 12, and it was the day before Christmas. My best friend was Johnny who had become my neighbor a few months earlier. Our parents became friends too, even though the Lefferts were Roman Catholics and my parents were Reformed.
Johnny had invited me to come to early mass with him on Christmas Day. I wanted to go, of course, and begged my parents for permission. But my father didn’t like the idea. To be friends was okay, but to attend each other’s church was more than friends had the right to expect from each other. Mother finally persuaded Dad to let me go, since I would be back in time to attend our own church service.
At five o’clock on Christmas morning, Johnny and I ran through the flurrying snow. Johnny was wearing a new pair of high shoes for the special occasion, while I wore my ordinary wooden shoes; Mom said they’d be warmer. Since the snow packed well this morning, we decided to see who could pack the most snow under his shoes. We slowed down, and carefully, step by step, we tried to get as much to stick as possible. I kept winning, since snow sticks better to wood than to leather.
But Johnny didn’t like losing. He kept trying harder and harder, until it dawned on him that I was winning because of my klompen. “I could easily beat you if I had klompen too,” he said. I didn’t agree, of course. In fact, I challenged him to give me his shoes and I’d show him I could still beat him.
So it happened that on the way to early mass, two cold but proud little fellows sat down in the snow to exchange their footwear. But before we could continue the Christmas Day competition, a large Catholic family caught up with us. One of the girls called out, “Hey, Johnny, you better hurry, ‘cause the service starts in five minutes and you still have to change to your choir robe. We’re late too, ‘cause Mommy overslept.”
We ran the rest of the way till the cathedral loomed straight ahead through the early morning shadows. Black figures hurried over the white snow and then under the yellow glow of the gas lanterns that lined the sidewalk. “You have to go through the big door,” panted Johnny, “I have to go through the door of the sacristy ‘cause I have to sing in the choir.”
I followed the crowd through the big doors and landed in the narthex of the packed church. Behind an ornate railing stood a group of Protestant visitors, jostling each other for the best view of what was to come.
As for myself, I stood close to the entrance and watched people dip their hands in a little bowl and then quickly make the sign of the cross. Without thinking, I decided to participate too, but the tall man with a terribly long nose (I can still see the drip hanging at its end) hissed at me: “Keep your hands out of there, you’re not Catholic, are you?” I have always wondered whether “Mr. Nose” was Catholic or Protestant.
Thoroughly frightened, I quickly pulled back among the visiting Protestants and wormed my way gradually to the railing. Just in time too. A Santa Claus type stood before the altar and bowed so low that his nose must have nearly touched the floor. But I didn’t see Johnny anywhere. All of a sudden I remembered that he was still wearing my clogs. At least his feet were warm; my toes in Johnny’s icy shoes were freezing. I wanted to jump up and down to warm them a bit, but the memory of “Mr. Nose” kept me quietly standing in place.
I almost jumped, though, when the organ suddenly started. The music was terribly loud; no wonder--I was standing right under the pipes. The people in the sanctuary rose and began to sing. I didn’t recognize the tune, but I remember clearly what a tremendous impression that music made on me. The sound seemed to climb along the whited walls, higher and higher, only to cascade down again and rejoin the leading melody. I stood entranced, and I shivered, more from the music, I think, than from the cold.
That must’ve been my first experience of beauty—an aesthetic experience, as they call it. I don’t remember much of the mass itself. I didn’t understand the strange language nor the strange rituals among what I thought of then as the Santa Claus figures. Besides, I was too cold, and the whole service seemed much too long. It was what happened toward the end of it that I have remembered so clearly through all these years.
The organ played again, very softly now, and then a clear girl-soprano voice rang through the cathedral. I noticed that all around me people began to listen with rapt attention to the beautiful melody of “From heaven above to earth I come.”
I held my breath. The pure, delicate voice of the singer seemed to fill that whole immense cathedral. It seemed to float through space like a fine-bodied swallow. It bounced off the walls and as the notes went higher it seemed to disappear into the vaulted dome and out into the outside air until it became an angel choir of glorious music. I don’t know how to explain it exactly; it’s hard to find words for such feelings. But it filled me with such great gladness that I wanted to run with the shepherds over the hills around Bethlehem, arms flailing like a windmill, faster and faster, to see Jesus, my Jesus.
After the service I waited for Johnny at the door of the sacristy. “How did you like it?” he asked. He didn’t wait for my answer but pulled me inside. Beneath a candle-lit statue of Mary we exchanged our footwear. I followed his example when he crossed himself. “You didn’t need to do that,” said my friend, “you aren’t Catholic, are you?”
A couple of days later Johnny was terribly sick with pneumonia. He had kicked off my klompen and in his wet socks had followed the bishop into church. And there he had stood, on the stone floor, throughout the long service.
I moped around the house, feeling guilty about Johnny’s illness and resentful that my best friend had to get sick during Christmas vacation. We prayed for him at mealtimes, and I noticed that Dad’s prayers became increasingly more urgent.
One day, Mrs. Lefferts, pale and fatigued from many nights of interrupted and uneasy sleep, stopped by. Johnny wanted me to come over. “Is Johnny getting better, then?” I asked eagerly. Softly she answered, “With God all things are possible. Please come along quickly.”
I didn’t know what to say at first when I got there. Johnny was so weak; he could hardly speak. After a while I told him about the girl’s solo and how beautiful I thought it had been. “That was no girl,” whispered Johnny, “listen to this.” As he began to sing, very softly, I heard the same voice, the same melody. I couldn’t believe it. When he finished there was mischief gleaming in his eyes. “Well?” he asked. His voice was so soft now, I hardly heard him. But I tried to tell him something then of what I had felt during his singing that Christmas morning.
When I finished, he reached out a thin, pale hand. Impulsively and self-consciously at the same time, I took his hand in mine, and I whispered that I prayed for him and that I was sure Jesus would make him well again. I felt the pressure from his hand as he whispered back, “From heaven above to earth he came….”
Jesus did make Johnny well again. We stayed friends for a long time till finally we moved too far away from each other. But I’ve never forgotten Johnny. And I’ve often thought that the whole Christmas event became real to me in that breathless moment when I followed that graceful swallow far beyond the cathedral. It was at that moment that I knew without the slightest doubt that Jesus came as a Child for me and that as a Man he had to die for me. And when in bygone years I sometimes had to struggle through thoughts and experiences that shook my faith, I always returned through my memory to that place and to that moment when my white-knuckled hand hung on to the wrought-iron railing, and a gentle Savior made me hear again that pure girl-soprano voice: “From heaven above to earth I come!”
Tuesday, November 22, 2011
Thanksgiving
It looks like God blesses some more than others.
Some rarely see a doctor or a psychiatrist.
Some enjoy a happy marriage and family, achieve professional distinctions, have many stimulating friends, and lead an exciting and rewarding life.
Others are seldom without pain, want but never find a suitable marriage partner, never graduate from that mundane job, rarely enjoy the attention and company of others.
Yet those more blessed are not necessarily more grateful.
In fact, it may be more difficult for the highly favored to experience true gratitude.
For gratitude is not the invariable consequence of health, happiness, and prosperity.
Genuine gratitude is, rather, a condition of the heart.
I remember a short film I’ve seen several times, a poignant documentary that gives us a glimpse in the life of Leo Beuermann, a twisted dwarf of a man.
At first glance Leo strikes one as grotesque in his deformity, plagued by so many physical disabilities that one is likely to think of him as both helpless and hopeless.
But he was neither.
He lived each day with courage, dignity, and faith.
Though his afflictions were many and severe, he lived out of a grateful hearty that was constantly tuned to the mercy of God.
Gratitude is more than a prayer of thanks on Thanksgiving Day, or any other day.
It is essentially a way of living, a life style impelled by the heart’s response to the constancy of God’s goodness and grace.
We need to pray for such a heart, as did George Herbert centuries ago:
Thou that hast given so much to me,
Give one thing more—a grateful heart;
Not thankful when it pleaseth me,
As if thy blessings had spare days;
But such a heart, whose pulse may be
Thy praise.
from "Talking with God"
Some rarely see a doctor or a psychiatrist.
Some enjoy a happy marriage and family, achieve professional distinctions, have many stimulating friends, and lead an exciting and rewarding life.
Others are seldom without pain, want but never find a suitable marriage partner, never graduate from that mundane job, rarely enjoy the attention and company of others.
Yet those more blessed are not necessarily more grateful.
In fact, it may be more difficult for the highly favored to experience true gratitude.
For gratitude is not the invariable consequence of health, happiness, and prosperity.
Genuine gratitude is, rather, a condition of the heart.
I remember a short film I’ve seen several times, a poignant documentary that gives us a glimpse in the life of Leo Beuermann, a twisted dwarf of a man.
At first glance Leo strikes one as grotesque in his deformity, plagued by so many physical disabilities that one is likely to think of him as both helpless and hopeless.
But he was neither.
He lived each day with courage, dignity, and faith.
Though his afflictions were many and severe, he lived out of a grateful hearty that was constantly tuned to the mercy of God.
Gratitude is more than a prayer of thanks on Thanksgiving Day, or any other day.
It is essentially a way of living, a life style impelled by the heart’s response to the constancy of God’s goodness and grace.
We need to pray for such a heart, as did George Herbert centuries ago:
Thou that hast given so much to me,
Give one thing more—a grateful heart;
Not thankful when it pleaseth me,
As if thy blessings had spare days;
But such a heart, whose pulse may be
Thy praise.
from "Talking with God"
Wednesday, November 16, 2011
I Believe
I believe.
But why?
Because I was baptized, raised in a Christian home, educated in Christian schools, studied the catechism, was active in church youth groups, and included prayer and Bible reading in my formative years?
Perhaps.
But life’s journey is often rough.
The fabric of faith gets torn.
It can unravel.
More than once it nearly did.
Yet I believe.
For there is beauty beyond description of tongue or pen.
And there is evil no human power can overcome.
And there were Dante and Milton and Shakespeare.
And Bach and Mozart and Handel.
And Mother Theresa and Smedes and Yancey.
Yes, I believe.
For there was a cloud of witnesses in the place I worked.
And a great company of saints in the church I worshipped.
But most of all, I believe, because one starlit night,
a Baby was born, pure and perfect, whose name was Jesus.
It’s the power and glory of his Life, and Death, that changes mine.
It’s the Truth of his words I wish to live by.
It’s his Way that leads through the valley to God that I must walk.
This I believe.
But why?
Because I was baptized, raised in a Christian home, educated in Christian schools, studied the catechism, was active in church youth groups, and included prayer and Bible reading in my formative years?
Perhaps.
But life’s journey is often rough.
The fabric of faith gets torn.
It can unravel.
More than once it nearly did.
Yet I believe.
For there is beauty beyond description of tongue or pen.
And there is evil no human power can overcome.
And there were Dante and Milton and Shakespeare.
And Bach and Mozart and Handel.
And Mother Theresa and Smedes and Yancey.
Yes, I believe.
For there was a cloud of witnesses in the place I worked.
And a great company of saints in the church I worshipped.
But most of all, I believe, because one starlit night,
a Baby was born, pure and perfect, whose name was Jesus.
It’s the power and glory of his Life, and Death, that changes mine.
It’s the Truth of his words I wish to live by.
It’s his Way that leads through the valley to God that I must walk.
This I believe.
Wednesday, October 19, 2011
Veteran's Day: More WWII Memories
In a few weeks it will be Veteran’s Day.
A day for all to remember and honor those who paid the ultimate price exacted by freedom.
A day to weep for the evil among us that chooses war rather than peace, that chooses to destroy life rather than to make it flourish.
And a day to pray that “war may be no more,” and that peacemakers may be blessed.
***
One day the young boy saw planes falling out of the sky. And bodies falling out of the plane. Because there was war in the sky too.
Dozens of bombers were flying high overhead, escort planes circling around them constantly like sheepdogs.
Then he saw the German planes suddenly appear out of nowhere and racing fast to get to the bombers before they’d be spotted. Three got tangled up into dogfights with Allied planes before they could penetrate.
He stood there, hardly breathing, as he watched the planes chasing each other, like a dog chasing a rabbit, shooting at each other, and then one got hit and there was smoke and the plane came tumbling out of the sky and he saw a parachute come floating down too.
But then he watched with horror as two enemy fighter planes got to a straggling bomber. The bomber crew didn’t have a chance.
He saw puffs of smoke and the bomber went out of control and no parachutes came out and the plane looked like it was going to come down right on top of him and two other bombers now were hit too and hurtling down, and he stood frozen to the spot as the first plane plunged into the ground less than a mile away.
Twelve Allied Air Force soldiers were buried in the churchyard of his town.
***
Years later the boy, now adult, visited Margraten in the southern part of the Netherlands.
He walked among the 8300 American soldiers who lie buried there, young vibrant lives cut down by a crazed enemy that sought to destroy the freedom of others.
He wept for those lost lives and their loved ones who never held them again.
And then he remembered the young boy who one day after the war, on his way home from school, encountered an old white-bearded gentleman walking toward him, asking directions to the cemetery to visit his son’s grave.
And he remembered the belt buckle he had found in the burned-out wreckage of the airplane that he and his friends sneaked into when the German guards weren’t looking.
He had kept it for a long time. And every time he had held it in his hands, he remembered the feeling and the smell of death inside that ruined hulk.
For that’s what war is all about: death.
A day for all to remember and honor those who paid the ultimate price exacted by freedom.
A day to weep for the evil among us that chooses war rather than peace, that chooses to destroy life rather than to make it flourish.
And a day to pray that “war may be no more,” and that peacemakers may be blessed.
***
One day the young boy saw planes falling out of the sky. And bodies falling out of the plane. Because there was war in the sky too.
Dozens of bombers were flying high overhead, escort planes circling around them constantly like sheepdogs.
Then he saw the German planes suddenly appear out of nowhere and racing fast to get to the bombers before they’d be spotted. Three got tangled up into dogfights with Allied planes before they could penetrate.
He stood there, hardly breathing, as he watched the planes chasing each other, like a dog chasing a rabbit, shooting at each other, and then one got hit and there was smoke and the plane came tumbling out of the sky and he saw a parachute come floating down too.
But then he watched with horror as two enemy fighter planes got to a straggling bomber. The bomber crew didn’t have a chance.
He saw puffs of smoke and the bomber went out of control and no parachutes came out and the plane looked like it was going to come down right on top of him and two other bombers now were hit too and hurtling down, and he stood frozen to the spot as the first plane plunged into the ground less than a mile away.
Twelve Allied Air Force soldiers were buried in the churchyard of his town.
***
Years later the boy, now adult, visited Margraten in the southern part of the Netherlands.
He walked among the 8300 American soldiers who lie buried there, young vibrant lives cut down by a crazed enemy that sought to destroy the freedom of others.
He wept for those lost lives and their loved ones who never held them again.
And then he remembered the young boy who one day after the war, on his way home from school, encountered an old white-bearded gentleman walking toward him, asking directions to the cemetery to visit his son’s grave.
And he remembered the belt buckle he had found in the burned-out wreckage of the airplane that he and his friends sneaked into when the German guards weren’t looking.
He had kept it for a long time. And every time he had held it in his hands, he remembered the feeling and the smell of death inside that ruined hulk.
For that’s what war is all about: death.
Tuesday, August 16, 2011
Childhood Memories of WWII
I woke up that May-day morning
from intimations of immortality
to the sounds and sin of World War II.
Behind me were five years of hazy bliss
of much innocence and memories few,
before me lay five years of fear
and a life-time of experience
whose recollections have the power
to haunt me still this year.
I remember now the bright-blue, spring-sprung sky
smeared suddenly with swastikas on gleaming wings,
the angry droning of a thousand warplanes
silencing the sounds of music from hedge and trees.
I remember now that father prayed that day
for God to help us all, to save our land.
But Hitler’s mighty forces had their way.
My little world became unsafe, and fear
moved in, a pallid and unwanted resident.
I remember now the man wanted alive or dead
for whom we made a hiding place.
One day the Germans came to cross our land.
My friend and I stood watching through the glass
when I saw a strange expression on his face,
when I saw a revolver in his hand,
to shoot himself, I wondered, or the enemy?
The soldiers skipped our door, thank God,
but I was terrified.
I remember now my mother on her bicycle,
side bags bulging with papers from the underground
she would deliver on her special paper route
while I feared constantly that she’d be caught
and we would never see her face again.
I remember now the deadly dogfights in the air,
the Allied bombers smoking, hurtling down
so close to us, I thought we would get hit.
Later friends and I sneaked inside the burned-out hulk,
where I smelled death of the 12-men crew,
found buttons, belt-buckles, a first-aid kit,
a half-burned boot, mementos of the men
who were buried in the village churchyard
far from their native soil.
I remember now the power of the flying bomb,
the German V-twos sent to London
as a hoped-for coup d’état.
This one fell not far from us
and left a crater deep and wide
enough to drop a house in.
I remember now the protest day when
farmers spilled their milk upon the ground
instead of shipping to the factory.
And Germans eager to retaliate
grabbed some townsfolk here and there,
and lined them up; they were shot and killed,
all sixteen of them, execution-style, then
thrown into a mass grave, as of no account.
One was a boy only four years older than I was.
I remember now on liberation day
when the forces of the underground
came to pick up collaborators with the enemy,
including dad and son whose land lay next to us.
When these refused to come outside,
their captors tossed a hand grenade.
Then they went in and found
the father dead with a bullet in his head,
the mother dead from the hand grenade,
only the wounded son survived; his hands were bound,
and then he stood before the crowd
whose wartime anger, long pent up,
was now unleashed; some slapped his face,
others spat upon him, all taunted him
who had just lost his dad and mom;
and these were good Christian folk.
I remember now the day
I met a man from far away,
walking down the main street of our town;
his hair was thin and white, his beard was long.
He asked how he might find the way
to the gravesite of his only son.
I showed him where the churchyard was,
but I did not invite him home with me,
I did not seat him in our best chair,
find the prettiest cup and saucer on the shelf
and make some tea for him.
I did not invite all the war’s survivors
of the town to come and thank this man,
thank this broken father for what his son had done;
for I was too young then and did not think of that.
But I would like to thank him now,
and all the others who gave more
than what we ever have a right to ask.
We learned while very young
that there is evil in the human heart;
the dreams of innocence were shattered,
we always looked through broken glass.
Even after 70 years, our vision has not been restored.
For some there’s only hope, grounded in faith,
that there will be a day, when face to face
we will know as we are known,
and shalom will have come at last.
from intimations of immortality
to the sounds and sin of World War II.
Behind me were five years of hazy bliss
of much innocence and memories few,
before me lay five years of fear
and a life-time of experience
whose recollections have the power
to haunt me still this year.
I remember now the bright-blue, spring-sprung sky
smeared suddenly with swastikas on gleaming wings,
the angry droning of a thousand warplanes
silencing the sounds of music from hedge and trees.
I remember now that father prayed that day
for God to help us all, to save our land.
But Hitler’s mighty forces had their way.
My little world became unsafe, and fear
moved in, a pallid and unwanted resident.
I remember now the man wanted alive or dead
for whom we made a hiding place.
One day the Germans came to cross our land.
My friend and I stood watching through the glass
when I saw a strange expression on his face,
when I saw a revolver in his hand,
to shoot himself, I wondered, or the enemy?
The soldiers skipped our door, thank God,
but I was terrified.
I remember now my mother on her bicycle,
side bags bulging with papers from the underground
she would deliver on her special paper route
while I feared constantly that she’d be caught
and we would never see her face again.
I remember now the deadly dogfights in the air,
the Allied bombers smoking, hurtling down
so close to us, I thought we would get hit.
Later friends and I sneaked inside the burned-out hulk,
where I smelled death of the 12-men crew,
found buttons, belt-buckles, a first-aid kit,
a half-burned boot, mementos of the men
who were buried in the village churchyard
far from their native soil.
I remember now the power of the flying bomb,
the German V-twos sent to London
as a hoped-for coup d’état.
This one fell not far from us
and left a crater deep and wide
enough to drop a house in.
I remember now the protest day when
farmers spilled their milk upon the ground
instead of shipping to the factory.
And Germans eager to retaliate
grabbed some townsfolk here and there,
and lined them up; they were shot and killed,
all sixteen of them, execution-style, then
thrown into a mass grave, as of no account.
One was a boy only four years older than I was.
I remember now on liberation day
when the forces of the underground
came to pick up collaborators with the enemy,
including dad and son whose land lay next to us.
When these refused to come outside,
their captors tossed a hand grenade.
Then they went in and found
the father dead with a bullet in his head,
the mother dead from the hand grenade,
only the wounded son survived; his hands were bound,
and then he stood before the crowd
whose wartime anger, long pent up,
was now unleashed; some slapped his face,
others spat upon him, all taunted him
who had just lost his dad and mom;
and these were good Christian folk.
I remember now the day
I met a man from far away,
walking down the main street of our town;
his hair was thin and white, his beard was long.
He asked how he might find the way
to the gravesite of his only son.
I showed him where the churchyard was,
but I did not invite him home with me,
I did not seat him in our best chair,
find the prettiest cup and saucer on the shelf
and make some tea for him.
I did not invite all the war’s survivors
of the town to come and thank this man,
thank this broken father for what his son had done;
for I was too young then and did not think of that.
But I would like to thank him now,
and all the others who gave more
than what we ever have a right to ask.
We learned while very young
that there is evil in the human heart;
the dreams of innocence were shattered,
we always looked through broken glass.
Even after 70 years, our vision has not been restored.
For some there’s only hope, grounded in faith,
that there will be a day, when face to face
we will know as we are known,
and shalom will have come at last.
Friday, July 8, 2011
Summer Beauty in the Mountains
This memory goes back to a mid-summer day in July.
I still hear the words:
“Dad, when I die I want to be buried here.”
She startled me out of my reverie that summer day, high up in the Cascades.
I turned to her and saw a vigorous, vital youngster full of the spice of life.
But her thoughtful face expressed a peace and wisdom far beyond her nine years.
Our family had hiked up a mountain trail.
We had come as strangers,
our ears tuned to the sounds of cars and commerce,
our eyes trained to spot traffic signs.
But nature slowly embraced and re-educated us.
As we moved away from the din of highways, we began to listen to the sounds of birds calling to birds,
of woodpeckers drumming on dead trees,
of water sometimes trickling and flowing down like lace,
sometimes rushing and leaping out boldly into space,
shattering upon rocks below in a rainbow spray.
We began to note the variegated shades of barks and ferns,
the spirea growing in the underwood,
the occasional canopies of devil’s club and clusters of columbine.
We began to smell the forest scents of stately firs and decaying plant life.
And we began to walk more softly through a hushed cathedral of evergreens,
to speak more softly,
till at last we were quiet altogether,
yielding to the peace and silence all around us.
When we reached the edge of trees and ferns, we saw before us at some distance the snowfields rising to a flattened dome.
Though we were surely not mountain climbers,
there, above the shadows of forests and sounds of tumbling streams,
face to face with a mountain,
we felt something of the mountaineer’s wordless exhilaration.
Another trail invited us to climb higher, and soon we came upon a scene that took our breath away:
we had reached the alpine meadows,
a gentle slope ablaze with colorful drifts of wild flowers and heather,
dotted with patches of lingering snow.
We stood in the presence of great beauty,
inside a garden of our Father’s world,
where we felt the awesome mystery and majesty of God Himself.
There in the mountain meadows,
a place of tranquility among rugged mountain peaks and hanging glaciers,
a profound silence wrapped around our souls.
And in that silence, the voice of God spoke:
of the foolishness of pride,
of the insensitivity to the invisible relationship between self and nature,
of the propensity to let the world be too much with us and within us.
And, at the foot of a mighty mountain,
it spoke to us of time and the frailty and transience of human life.
But the voice induced no fear, only conviction and serenity.
The thought of death, too, held no terror.
Perhaps death terrifies most when we feel most distant from the essence of life,
when we are most preoccupied with the trivial,
when we are most alienated from the mystery and majesty of God,
when we are most inattentive to the creative forces that make mountains and wild flowers,
when we are most resistant to God’s Spirit which, in Christ, would make us new.
But here we experienced the voice of Him who says:
“Be still and know that I am God.”
And that voice filled us with peace and awe.
My daughter and I looked at each other.
Then she looked away, at nature’s profusion around us, and she said again,
“I’d like to be buried here when I die.”
And I knew what she meant.
I still hear the words:
“Dad, when I die I want to be buried here.”
She startled me out of my reverie that summer day, high up in the Cascades.
I turned to her and saw a vigorous, vital youngster full of the spice of life.
But her thoughtful face expressed a peace and wisdom far beyond her nine years.
Our family had hiked up a mountain trail.
We had come as strangers,
our ears tuned to the sounds of cars and commerce,
our eyes trained to spot traffic signs.
But nature slowly embraced and re-educated us.
As we moved away from the din of highways, we began to listen to the sounds of birds calling to birds,
of woodpeckers drumming on dead trees,
of water sometimes trickling and flowing down like lace,
sometimes rushing and leaping out boldly into space,
shattering upon rocks below in a rainbow spray.
We began to note the variegated shades of barks and ferns,
the spirea growing in the underwood,
the occasional canopies of devil’s club and clusters of columbine.
We began to smell the forest scents of stately firs and decaying plant life.
And we began to walk more softly through a hushed cathedral of evergreens,
to speak more softly,
till at last we were quiet altogether,
yielding to the peace and silence all around us.
When we reached the edge of trees and ferns, we saw before us at some distance the snowfields rising to a flattened dome.
Though we were surely not mountain climbers,
there, above the shadows of forests and sounds of tumbling streams,
face to face with a mountain,
we felt something of the mountaineer’s wordless exhilaration.
Another trail invited us to climb higher, and soon we came upon a scene that took our breath away:
we had reached the alpine meadows,
a gentle slope ablaze with colorful drifts of wild flowers and heather,
dotted with patches of lingering snow.
We stood in the presence of great beauty,
inside a garden of our Father’s world,
where we felt the awesome mystery and majesty of God Himself.
There in the mountain meadows,
a place of tranquility among rugged mountain peaks and hanging glaciers,
a profound silence wrapped around our souls.
And in that silence, the voice of God spoke:
of the foolishness of pride,
of the insensitivity to the invisible relationship between self and nature,
of the propensity to let the world be too much with us and within us.
And, at the foot of a mighty mountain,
it spoke to us of time and the frailty and transience of human life.
But the voice induced no fear, only conviction and serenity.
The thought of death, too, held no terror.
Perhaps death terrifies most when we feel most distant from the essence of life,
when we are most preoccupied with the trivial,
when we are most alienated from the mystery and majesty of God,
when we are most inattentive to the creative forces that make mountains and wild flowers,
when we are most resistant to God’s Spirit which, in Christ, would make us new.
But here we experienced the voice of Him who says:
“Be still and know that I am God.”
And that voice filled us with peace and awe.
My daughter and I looked at each other.
Then she looked away, at nature’s profusion around us, and she said again,
“I’d like to be buried here when I die.”
And I knew what she meant.
Saturday, July 2, 2011
Unbroken
I grew up in WW II, the enemy and its readiness to kill in view nearly every day.
Maybe that explains my life-long interest in war literature and film, each well-crafted tale reinforcing and deepening my revulsion to war.War, I’m convinced, must have all the devils dancing in hell with glee, confident that it will turn many a warrior into a devil too.
No book has brought that home to me as painfully and unforgettably as did Unbroken: A World War II Story of Survival, Resilience, and Redemption by Laura Hillenbrand.
Were it fiction, it would still have been a memorable read, though I would’ve dismissed some characters and events as simply too incredible. But it is fact, and fact, we know, is sometimes stranger than fiction. In this case, it took me into the heart of darkness so relentlessly and graphically that I could hardly disentangle myself from its terrors between readings.
Yes, war is about death-defying acts of courage. About giving one’s life for another. But also about taking a life from another. About danger and fear so unremitting and intense that it can inflict life-long psychic damage. About demonic acts of cruelty that destroy one’s dignity and break the human spirit.
More than anything, of course, war is about people. Like Louis Zamperini, an Olympic long-distance runner, becoming a long-distance bombardier in the war against Japan. If it’s possible for one to die many deaths, Louie does: on bombing missions, crashing into the vast Pacific, drifting in a leaky raft for nearly fifty days, falling into the brutal hands of Japanese prison guards who inflicted daily beatings and torture and near starvation.
But somehow Louie survives, in a badly damaged body, and with a plague of horrific memories that unravel his spirit. His descent into the depths of inhumanity has been too steep and prolonged. Neither the adulation of the nation, nor the love of family, nor the love of a beautiful wife can put Louis Zamperini together again.
Only the love of God can – and does. Profound and inexplicable. And unforgettable. As it always is when grace makes its amazing entry.
At the end, this reader, too, felt blessed.
Monday, June 20, 2011
Beyond Expectation
Now that he has risen,
our eyes can conquer
fear.
Raise heads
and with the trees
reach out a hand.
It will come soon:
in windlessness and fire,
birds over land,
an almighty Dove.
Wait, and your voice
will be understood.
-Jan Dotinga
translated from Frisian -- hjb
our eyes can conquer
fear.
Raise heads
and with the trees
reach out a hand.
It will come soon:
in windlessness and fire,
birds over land,
an almighty Dove.
Wait, and your voice
will be understood.
-Jan Dotinga
translated from Frisian -- hjb
Friday, June 10, 2011
When a Daughter Marries
[Summer is a time when for many young lovers wedding bells ring.
It’s been a few years since our youngest daughter’s wedding feast.
And the weddings of her three older sisters are an even more distant memory.
But this is what I remember, now dedicated to all the parents who will be “giving their daughters away” this summer.]
(An awful phraseology, really, but that’s a topic for another time.)
When a daughter marries, you smile and laugh a lot.
Partly from tension, of course.
But mostly from relief.
For all the hurly-burly of the preceding months (Adam and Even never knew what they were missing) is at last culminating in a peaceful ceremony of beauty.
The families are there.
Friends have come.
The dresses all fit, and the colors complement.
The music is melodious and joyful.
Bride and groom are radiant.
The vows are spoken, and no spurned lover appears at the last moment to object.
You smile with relief: it’s going well (though much too quickly) now.
And you smile and laugh because this is a festive occasion – this is a wedding feast!
Though the wine doesn’t flow like it did in Cana , the spirits are high, the talk is animated, and currents of warm affection float everywhere.
The Creator’s gracious gift of love is celebrated!
But there’s another reason you smile and laugh a lot: you try to cover up.
For when a daughter marries, what you really want to do is cry a little.
You try not to, of course, for fathers don’t cry.
So they smile and laugh a lot.
But she’s flesh of your flesh, after all, and after all these years rather firmly attached.
But she’s flesh of your flesh, after all, and after all these years rather firmly attached.
And it hurts to part with what is part of you, to let go, to let your flesh unite with other flesh.
But it is the way of love: for man and woman to leave father and mother and to cleave unto each other.
God made it so, and it is right and it is beautiful.
And therefore parents say Amen to it; in fact, they would have it no other way.
Still, even the most beautiful things can hurt a little.
Maybe it’s especially the beautiful things that make you cry.
There’s something else you do when a daughter marries: through your smile and through your tears you breathe a prayer.
Up to this moment, bride and groom have experienced the delights and frustrations of romance: tomorrow their history of husband and wife will begin.
You breathe a prayer of thanks that it will begin in the Lord.
For in our time, marriage is a fragile institution.
The strains and tensions of this age wreak their havoc all too often.
God’s children are subject to that too, for they too are vulnerable.
Life can get messy; and marriage is part of that life.
That’s why you pray for a union that will be steadily sustained by the grace of God.
And in George Eliot’s words, you pray that this young couple may be joined for life:
“to strengthen each other in all labor,
to rest on each other in all sorrow,
to minister to each other in all pain,
to be one with each other in the silent, unspeakable memories at the moment of last parting.”
Monday, May 30, 2011
The Merry Month of May
If I were a poet, May would have been a busy month.
A poet, we know, is irresistibly moved by the mysterious muse
to express the inexpressible.
To find words for feelings that lie too deep for thought.
To find words for feelings that lie too deep for thought.
And the month of May often fills the heart.
If I were a poet my pen would have caught the transient,
fragile beauty of the flowering crab, “where the bee sucks,”
and whose pink-red petals dazzle my every May.
If I were a poet I would have celebrated in un-Hallmarkian verse
my brother’s birthday and all those days and ways
in which, as close friends, we spent time in gut-aching laughter,
serious thought, stimulating talk, and mutual affection.
If I were a poet I would have found on Mothers Day
true words of thanks for all the caring and sharing
and praying and self-giving of good mothers everywhere.
If I were a poet I would have captured through imagery
and sound and rhythm the many feelings of my heart and
my spirit’s prayer on our daughter’s birthday, who lives
her life more than 2000 miles away.
If I were a poet I would have composed a dozen sestinas
for all those who, capped and gowned, in pomp
and circumstance, celebrate a cerebral siesta after much
hard learning and weariness of the flesh.
If I were a poet I would have exclaimed in psalms and hymns
and holy sonnets the glorious mystery, truth, and power
of Ascension, and Pentecost to follow.
Even then, I doubt that I could have struck the human spirit
with the fullness of the awesome wonder those two events entail.
And if I were a poet I would memorialize the lives
sacrificed in too many wars.
I would in graphic detail depict the sins of slaughter,
the price of freedom, the specter of mass death.
My conscious memory began with war, ironically
in the May time of the year.
Those memories, mild as they are, still have the power to haunt.
If I were a poet I would poignantly pen my pleas and prayers for peace.
But I’m not a poet.
Still, May was busy anyway.
And now, at Merry May’s end, I am content to sit
under pale moonlight and “let the sounds of music creep in my years:
soft stillness in the night…the touches of sweet harmony.”
For something as “full of the spirit as the month of May,”
For something as “full of the spirit as the month of May,”
we need a Shakespeare.
Now, there’s a poet!
Wednesday, May 18, 2011
Behind the Mask
We walk behind invisible masks.
It’s safer and therefore more comfortable that way.
Each of us has secrets we try to disguise.
Michael Jackson knew it well, even in addressing another:
All along I knew you were
a phony girl
you sit behind the mask
and you control your world
So take off the mask so
I can see your face.
But an honest face can tell the truth.
We need masks to disguise the truth.
The truth of our insecurities, pretenses, secrets of the heart, depression.
Maybe it’s especially the teenager who dons the masks,
tightly guarding what cannot safely be shared with others,
tightly protecting self from hurts, misunderstanding, taunts, humiliation.
There’s a wall in a local Christian high school that gives a glimpse of what’s often behind the mask.
It’s called the “Speak Wall.”
It started in a chapel service where 18 students volunteered as guinea pigs.
They shared with fellow students what they had not shared before:
the fear of ugliness
the fear of not being cool enough
the ongoing grief for a lost father
loneliness
worry about the future
and other preoccupations that disturb young lives.
A hallway wall was dedicated as an invitation to other students to drop their mask.
It soon began to fill up.
Notes, signed and unsigned, about repeated suicide attempts.
A note about scars, empty pill bottles, and a tear-soaked pillow.
A note about missing the love of a good family.
A note about the pain of lost childhood innocence.
A note with the question: “Why did God give me diabetes?”
Another: “I need to break my addictions.”
Another: “I’m pretentious.”
Another: “I’m covered by a blanket of regret.”
Among these poignant and disturbing notes, student responses of understanding, encouragement, sharing, promising prayer.
Within the school, this hallway has become a kind of sacred ground.
Students and staff approach it in silence, then stop to read.
Then they go on to classrooms, the gym, the locker room.
But there’s a difference now.
There’s more awareness of the other, a growing sensitivity, a greater readiness to reach out, an increasing feeling of acceptance.
Is it possible that school can become a safe place to drop the mask?
And home too?
And church?
Saturday, April 30, 2011
When War Came
I love May.
I always have.
I always have.
Maybe it is because of the new life-ness of spring that suffuses nearly
everything.
everything.
Maybe it is because it is the month of my birth, and May birthdays
are still a sweet memory.
are still a sweet memory.
But there's another May memory that entered my life at a very
young age.
young age.
It is not a memory of innocence, but of evil. The shadow of that memory
has dimmed over the years, but it has never faded altogether.
has dimmed over the years, but it has never faded altogether.
This is that story:
Once upon a time there was a little boy who lived in a farmhouse.
There were cows in the barn attached to the house, chickens in
the chicken coop, pigs in the pigsty, a horse in the horse barn,
and bees in the beehives.
There were cows in the barn attached to the house, chickens in
the chicken coop, pigs in the pigsty, a horse in the horse barn,
and bees in the beehives.
The boy was happy, for all was well.
But shortly after the little boy had his 6th birthday, something very
frightening happened.
frightening happened.
His birthday had been wonderful. The early day in May had been warm,
like a summer day. All growing things were rushing to show off their colors
and smell and beauty. The little boy loved this time of year, when the cattle
were back in the fields, farmers were plowing, and all the children were playing outside.
like a summer day. All growing things were rushing to show off their colors
and smell and beauty. The little boy loved this time of year, when the cattle
were back in the fields, farmers were plowing, and all the children were playing outside.
But one morning in this beautiful springtime, the little boy woke with a start.
He heard voices outside the window of his bedroom, many voices, talking
loud and fast, as people do when they are excited or afraid.
And then the boy heard something else: the droning of an engine,
He heard voices outside the window of his bedroom, many voices, talking
loud and fast, as people do when they are excited or afraid.
And then the boy heard something else: the droning of an engine,
a great big engine not far away.
Maybe that’s why there were people outside talking so much, even though it
Maybe that’s why there were people outside talking so much, even though it
was only breakfast time.
The boy was curious and for some reason felt fear flutter inside.
He quickly got dressed.
He quickly got dressed.
Nobody was in the kitchen. Everybody must be outside, he thought.
When he came outside, he saw his Dad and Mom, and his brother and
older sister gathered in front of the house, busy talking to a group of neighbors.
When he came outside, he saw his Dad and Mom, and his brother and
older sister gathered in front of the house, busy talking to a group of neighbors.
And the noise of the engine was much louder now.
But the boy didn’t see an engine. Everybody was looking up at the sky.
When the boy looked up too, he saw where the awful rumble came from:
hundreds and hundreds of airplanes darkened the sky, like a huge swarm
But the boy didn’t see an engine. Everybody was looking up at the sky.
When the boy looked up too, he saw where the awful rumble came from:
hundreds and hundreds of airplanes darkened the sky, like a huge swarm
of locusts he had heard his Dad read about from the Bible.
The boy ran to his Mom.
He could tell by her face that something very serious was happening.
He could tell by her face that something very serious was happening.
“What’s wrong, Mom? Why are all those airplanes in the sky?”
His Mom took his hand and pulled him closer. Her voice trembled
when she said simply, “It’s war.”
when she said simply, “It’s war.”
The boy was too young to understand fully what that meant,
but he knew it was something that was very bad.
but he knew it was something that was very bad.
He heard people talking about the dirty Germans who had invaded
their country and were bombing the big cities in the south.
It was the first time the boy began to understand that there were
enemies in the land, in his land, enemies that would make life dangerous.
their country and were bombing the big cities in the south.
It was the first time the boy began to understand that there were
enemies in the land, in his land, enemies that would make life dangerous.
From that day the boy’s self-conscious life began, and he would
never again feel completely safe in the world into which he had been born.
For the next five years, fear would be a constant companion.
never again feel completely safe in the world into which he had been born.
For the next five years, fear would be a constant companion.
The family gathered around the table for breakfast that morning
later than usual. Everyone waited quietly for the father to pray
the morning prayer. They listened to every word as the father
prayed earnestly for God to protect them from the enemy, to bring
back peace, and to be especially near those who were fighting or fleeing
later than usual. Everyone waited quietly for the father to pray
the morning prayer. They listened to every word as the father
prayed earnestly for God to protect them from the enemy, to bring
back peace, and to be especially near those who were fighting or fleeing
for their lives.
No one had expected a war, though many had not trusted Hitler.
No one knew what this war would mean for the little country of the
Netherlands or for all the other countries of Europe .
But on this day, May 10, 1940, a dark cloud of an enemy air force
had appeared in the sky, and even the young boy had a bad feeling
that the cloud would only grow bigger and darker.
No one knew what this war would mean for the little country of the
But on this day, May 10, 1940, a dark cloud of an enemy air force
had appeared in the sky, and even the young boy had a bad feeling
that the cloud would only grow bigger and darker.
Saturday, April 23, 2011
Silent Saturday
sleeping
out of the draft
fallen on the lee side of the grave
the flags are lowered
the sails now slackened
the feet are covered
at last at rest
sleeping
out of the draft
fallen on the lee side of the grave
but unobserved
through granite walls
a genial breeze begins to play
all the trees pick up their tiny ears
the fog undulates itself into new shapes
wind, mumbling, slowly strolls
across the graveyard
a grave's about to burst
before the rising sun
Tiny Mulder
(tr. from Frisian by hjbaron]
out of the draft
fallen on the lee side of the grave
the flags are lowered
the sails now slackened
the feet are covered
at last at rest
sleeping
out of the draft
fallen on the lee side of the grave
but unobserved
through granite walls
a genial breeze begins to play
all the trees pick up their tiny ears
the fog undulates itself into new shapes
wind, mumbling, slowly strolls
across the graveyard
a grave's about to burst
before the rising sun
Tiny Mulder
(tr. from Frisian by hjbaron]
Friday, April 22, 2011
Good Friday
He must take this last step,
the last step of love,
the last step of life.
Now life slips from each limb,
finds refuge in his still-beating heart:
stretching from pole to pole,
high as heaven,
low as hell,
now overflowing,
heavy as the world,
the world of sin and misery.
See.
He takes his heavy heart,
and, slowly, laboriously,
alone between heaven and earth,
in the awesome night,
with passionate love,
he gathers the sin of the world,
and in a cry,
he gives ALL:
“Father, into thy hands I commend my spirit.”
Saturday, April 16, 2011
Death of an "ordinary" man
I went to a memorial service last night.
It was a reminder that we often learn to know one too late.
It was a reminder that we often learn to know one too late.
And that’s a great sadness.
Reinder came from Friesland to this country when he was 19.
There had been limited chance for an education.
There had been limited chance for an education.
But he took with him a curious intellect and a fine capacity for learning.
And a great love for his Fryslân and its ancient language.
He went to work in his new country, got drafted, sent to Korea
And also for his sweetheart.
They married, after military service, and for 55 years shared life together.
They married, after military service, and for 55 years shared life together.
Until death did them part.
Reinder and a brother, in time, built a business together.
The brick and stone-laying company did well, for their work was first-rate.
But life was not all business.
A growing family generated its own priority busy-ness.
And so did church, for the Lord’s work had first place in Reinder’s heart.
But his heart was large.
There was room for the deep roots of a Gardener’s passion.
He knew when to plant, how to grow, until the garden’s abundance could feed the family and be shared with friends.
But the flower garden became his specialty and love.
Ever hungry for greater expertise, he earned the title of Advanced Master Gardener through theMichigan State University
Ever hungry for greater expertise, he earned the title of Advanced Master Gardener through the
Eager to share his knowledge and his skills, he reached out to local gardening groups.
His prize-winning dahlias led him to help establish a Dahlia Society.
His love for neighbor led him to the ministry of Horticultural Therapy for released prisoners.
His reward? Their growing sense of confidence and dignity; and their love and respect.
Much of this I had not known.
I knew Reinder only from our “Frisian lunch group.”
I learned that his emigrating family and mine had sailed on the same ship, the Veendam, in 1948, though we did not meet then.
He was a thoughtful man, calm and deliberate in speech and manner.
Though he was a man of few words, I discovered that he was an avid reader.
What impressed me most were the facile use of his native tongue, and the rich store of knowledge he had accumulated about his beloved Friesland .
But there had been so much more to know.
Not long ago, this large strong man who had never been sick was laid low.
Attacked by an aggressive lymphoma, he declined rapidly.
But though his voice was nearly silenced near the end, his mind never faltered.
He knew and could bless his family as they gathered around his bed.
He could whisper of his love for them and his love for Jesus.
He was at peace, ready to meet his Savior.
Last night, in the church he had been a part of for so many years, now packed to capacity, I watched and listened as his friends and family testified.
.
I began to see a person I had not known.
A man who had fed on the writings of theologians and historians.
A man whose integrity and gentle spirit had blessed many.
A man who had been a leader in his church, active in nearly every aspect of its ministry.
A man whose delightful writing had often entertained his readers.
A man respected for his wisdom.
But especially a man whose faith, devotion, and love for the Lord had deeply touched those closest to him.
The gratitude for the life of this man and deep love shone on the faces of his children and others who spoke of him.
It was profoundly affecting.
In his death, Reinder blessed me, as I should have been in his life.
An “ordinary” man?
Is anyone “ordinary”?
It’s a great sadness when we think so.
Wednesday, March 30, 2011
No Hell for Rob Bell?
She asked the question, softly: “What about my mother?”
Then she began to cry.
She had tried hard not to; her Chinese culture had not encouraged a public display of very personal emotions.
Then she began to cry.
She had tried hard not to; her Chinese culture had not encouraged a public display of very personal emotions.
But her heart was too full, her feelings too charged.
Ming was in the U.S.
She learned about heaven, and it had thrilled her soul. A peace past understanding had always been her deep hope. An unfailing goodness was her heart’s longing. Heaven promised that and much more.
She learned about heaven, and it had thrilled her soul. A peace past understanding had always been her deep hope. An unfailing goodness was her heart’s longing. Heaven promised that and much more.
But she learned about hell too. She was told that without faith in Jesus, one would be doomed to spend eternity in hell. And that shook her to the roots.
Ming had lost her mother not long before she came to theU.S.
Ming had lost her mother not long before she came to the
Now, as a Christian, she was deeply troubled.
A Christian friend had told her that her mother would not be in heaven.
As a Buddhist, her mother had never been introduced to Jesus Christ; her sins had not been forgiven.
Ming had received the verdict as a sword-thrust into her heart.
She had often wept during sleepless nights.
She felt that she would never be able to put that vision of her dear mother in hell behind her, that she could never be at peace about it.
She had often wept during sleepless nights.
She felt that she would never be able to put that vision of her dear mother in hell behind her, that she could never be at peace about it.
Hence the agonizing question: “What about my mother?”
There was a time of silence between us.
I felt the depth of her anguish.
I felt the depth of her anguish.
I felt the need for reflection, for weighing the words she was waiting for.
And I was keenly aware of my constitutional aversion to reach behind the mystery of the hereafter.
At last I tried.
“Ming, what happens to us after our physical death I think we should leave to God. I don’t think God expects us to make final judgments about a person’s eternal destiny. That is God’s domain.
But I know that God is merciful and loving; that he gave his only Son to prove it.
And I know that Jesus loved the sinner, even the sinners who crucified him.
But I know that God is merciful and loving; that he gave his only Son to prove it.
And I know that Jesus loved the sinner, even the sinners who crucified him.
If he loved even those, would he not love your mother?
And didn’t he teach us that blessed are the poor in spirit; that blessed are the meek; that blessed are the merciful; that blessed are the pure in heart; that blessed are the peacemakers?
When you read the Sermon on the Mount, think of your mother. And then trust Jesus with all your heart that his Father will deal rightly with all he has made, in life and in death. Trust his mercy, and his immeasurable love.
And be at peace.”
I think that is what Rob Bell is saying too, in his latest book.
Not that there is no hell; we can all think of fiends who belong there.
It’s much harder for us to think of non-Christian saints in Satan’s home.
It’s much harder for us to think of non-Christian saints in Satan’s home.
Ming has been back in China
She’s still struggling at times with an absent mother in her life, but even more with thoughts of her mother in hell.
She’s still struggling at times with an absent mother in her life, but even more with thoughts of her mother in hell.
Still, there is more peace too as she is learning to say, “Your will be done,” with the faith that, though we cannot know God’s will, God’s will is perfect.
Thursday, March 17, 2011
Writers and Readers
Writing is an interaction with the page, or screen.
It stares at you, or you at it.
The page is blank, inviting words, the shape of thoughts that have to be mined from a deep interior where the meaning and the mysteries of the outer world are stored.
But it's messier than that.
Meanings are often inchoate, to be wrestled with before articulation.
And mysteries: how uneasily approached, how difficult to render.
But gradually the blankness of the page disappears under the words that try to signify, if only to the writer.
Should the writing be shared with others, the hope is it will signify also to those, the readers.
As every writer knows, sometimes it doesn't.
But when it does, the writer feels joined to community, yielding a sense of connectedness, of belonging to an uncommon humanity that takes seriously its moral and spiritual quests and meanings.
And that gives a grateful heart.
The reader responses below to Talking with God... fill that grateful heart.
...a golden bowl full of prayers (Rev. 5:8) that are like casual conversations with a friend, except that the friend is called “Lord.”
The book breathes the notion that religion is for all of life, and that nothing is unimportant in the eyes of God.
It teaches us how to pray in a more natural way.
Here is a devotional that is unlike most I have read.
...the book is a "master piece". You centainly have a speical gift of writing. The book was a blessing for both of us.
That observation—that speaking with God requires integrity of heart and mind—serves throughout as the key to his intimacy with his Father. Thus, these are truly adult conversations. They are not sentimental or Pollyanna exercises.
This collection is a true gift to “God-seekers.”
Oh, my, what can I say? Your book is beautiful! Your tone, subjects and sensitivity speak to the faith that I hold...
Fear and Mourning really touched me ---a blessing where I am emotionally at this point of my journey. Talking With God is filled with such "unexpected gifts of grace," closely-observed moments of the spiritual life that surprise us as much with their beauty as with their honesty.
Talking With God is sincere and unafraid, a much-needed reminder of what faith really means in this age of cliche and polemic.
It is a book that does not judge or condemn, rather it engages our minds to think, contemplate and explore.
It zeroes in on the great central themes of the Christian faith.
He faces both the mysterious parts of God's revelation as well as life's painful dilemmas.
Henry Baron makes it clear throughout his musings, reflections, commentaries and prayers that he's talking with and not to God. What a difference that little preposition assumes and expects. It's his embrace of that assumption that makes this book such a treasure: we can talk with God about anything and all things.
Baron writes relational stuff. No pie(ty) in the sky.
Readers will find themselves speaking to their Father God with that same naturalness they learn from these pages of fluid, sacred conversations.
It reminds us of the important things in life and brings healing to any wounds we may carry, giving us permission to feel and heal.
...a frankness about life which makes me nod in agreement and ... a talent in connecting words so beautifully that they become meaningful and wonderful to God's children.
I have been amazed at the sensitivity of these talks with God. I have been blessed and enriched by them. Henry Baron has an unusual grasp of the human condition. His talks with God are insightful, honest, raw, disquieting and comforting at the same time. Christians have all kinds of wonderings, questions, doubts, hopes, fears. These talks with God give voice to all of these things. I recommend it highly.
Noble simplicity. Just the right words, usually short words, simple words, but just the right words.
Henry introduces us to a new genre of prayer--honest cries of the heart.
[for complete reviews, see www.exxelpublishing.com and Amazon]
Sometimes the wrestling with words to truthfully render elusive thoughts and feelings and memories and
questions is worth its sweat and tears.
It stares at you, or you at it.
The page is blank, inviting words, the shape of thoughts that have to be mined from a deep interior where the meaning and the mysteries of the outer world are stored.
But it's messier than that.
Meanings are often inchoate, to be wrestled with before articulation.
And mysteries: how uneasily approached, how difficult to render.
But gradually the blankness of the page disappears under the words that try to signify, if only to the writer.
Should the writing be shared with others, the hope is it will signify also to those, the readers.
As every writer knows, sometimes it doesn't.
But when it does, the writer feels joined to community, yielding a sense of connectedness, of belonging to an uncommon humanity that takes seriously its moral and spiritual quests and meanings.
And that gives a grateful heart.
The reader responses below to Talking with God... fill that grateful heart.
...a golden bowl full of prayers (Rev. 5:8) that are like casual conversations with a friend, except that the friend is called “Lord.”
The book breathes the notion that religion is for all of life, and that nothing is unimportant in the eyes of God.
It teaches us how to pray in a more natural way.
Here is a devotional that is unlike most I have read.
...the book is a "master piece". You centainly have a speical gift of writing. The book was a blessing for both of us.
That observation—that speaking with God requires integrity of heart and mind—serves throughout as the key to his intimacy with his Father. Thus, these are truly adult conversations. They are not sentimental or Pollyanna exercises.
This collection is a true gift to “God-seekers.”
Oh, my, what can I say? Your book is beautiful! Your tone, subjects and sensitivity speak to the faith that I hold...
Fear and Mourning really touched me ---a blessing where I am emotionally at this point of my journey. Talking With God is filled with such "unexpected gifts of grace," closely-observed moments of the spiritual life that surprise us as much with their beauty as with their honesty.
Talking With God is sincere and unafraid, a much-needed reminder of what faith really means in this age of cliche and polemic.
It is a book that does not judge or condemn, rather it engages our minds to think, contemplate and explore.
It zeroes in on the great central themes of the Christian faith.
He faces both the mysterious parts of God's revelation as well as life's painful dilemmas.
Henry Baron makes it clear throughout his musings, reflections, commentaries and prayers that he's talking with and not to God. What a difference that little preposition assumes and expects. It's his embrace of that assumption that makes this book such a treasure: we can talk with God about anything and all things.
Baron writes relational stuff. No pie(ty) in the sky.
Readers will find themselves speaking to their Father God with that same naturalness they learn from these pages of fluid, sacred conversations.
It reminds us of the important things in life and brings healing to any wounds we may carry, giving us permission to feel and heal.
...a frankness about life which makes me nod in agreement and ... a talent in connecting words so beautifully that they become meaningful and wonderful to God's children.
I have been amazed at the sensitivity of these talks with God. I have been blessed and enriched by them. Henry Baron has an unusual grasp of the human condition. His talks with God are insightful, honest, raw, disquieting and comforting at the same time. Christians have all kinds of wonderings, questions, doubts, hopes, fears. These talks with God give voice to all of these things. I recommend it highly.
Noble simplicity. Just the right words, usually short words, simple words, but just the right words.
Henry introduces us to a new genre of prayer--honest cries of the heart.
[for complete reviews, see www.exxelpublishing.com and Amazon]
Sometimes the wrestling with words to truthfully render elusive thoughts and feelings and memories and
questions is worth its sweat and tears.
Wednesday, March 9, 2011
The Back Attack
The back demons that had been lying low for the last six years or so launched a sneak attack more than a bad week ago.
I don’t know where they had been hiding all that time; I thought they had left, defeated at last.
They hadn’t. Are they ever?
They hadn’t. Are they ever?
Had they retreated to their hibernation lair? But I don’t think demons hibernate.
They scheme, they plot, they gather their arsenal, they sharpen their daggers, and they wait, they wait. Wait for just the right moment when their victim is working out and congratulating himself, if not on his athletic prowess, then at least on all fitness systems functioning smoothly.
With a sinister grimace the lead demon launched a soft musket ball. At least the initial impact was soft, making itself felt in the lower back over the succeeding hours, but gently enough to be dismissed easily.
The next day a bit less easily. Gradually I surmised that the musket ball had more likely been a delayed reaction armor-piercing incendiary. The fire was spreading. My panic button flashed.
The next day a bit less easily. Gradually I surmised that the musket ball had more likely been a delayed reaction armor-piercing incendiary. The fire was spreading. My panic button flashed.
Those who’ve been under a back-stabbing attack already know what was to follow.
Yes, the torture instrument was readied and, like some medieval torture box, steadily and unrelentingly encased around the lower back.
It became apparent all too quickly that the demons had fitted the inside with spikes that would pierce different parts of the body, depending on the body’s movements. At times they would touch a raw nerve, triggering a wave of spasms.
The victim heard the demonic laughter over his own pain-driven outcry when that happened. Because the sharpened spikes would penetrate the same “wounds” again and again when motion would precipitate, each motion became necessarily minimal, tentative, experimental, as if I were moving through a mine field.
It was a torment getting there, but once in bed flat on my back the feeling of bliss came flowing back. As long as I remained immobile.
And that was the demonic objective: keep this booby down!
But when nature calls in the middle of the night, the booby must rise.
One painful little motion at a time, until the body must actually rise to get up on two legs. It’s not something I wanted to try again after the first heroic attempt.
Easier and less painful to walk barefoot on burning coals.
Or sit down bare-bunnied on a giant Arizona
It became a grim, teeth-grinding battle between the booby and the spiky demons, for nature was urgent.
When I finally sat on the edge of the bed, I felt like I’d reached the edge of disaster. The spike belt was tightening around the waist.
And now I still had to try to stand up.
Trying it that first night, and many nights, and mornings, thereafter, I felt as if my upper body had separated from the lower, and now I had to fit the jagged edges back together, each edge wired by the back demons to a touchy nerve. It required an irrational act of courage of the kind that belongs right up there in JFK’s Profiles.
But the booby got up, more or less, each night, each morning, for a Calvinist simply cannot let the demons of any kind have their way.
His faithful helpmeet was needed to get the socks, etc. on the aching body parts.
His faithful helpmeet was needed to get the socks, etc. on the aching body parts.
Total immobility was best, thus his movements were minimal, his small steps extremely measured.
Yes, he learned that demons can teach a man to “walk circumspectly.”
But during all his waking hours there was no place of comfort.
After ten days or so, the demons held council. Their verdict: a slow retreat, and “we’ll catch him again another time.”
There are a couple left.
There are a couple left.
I can feel their presence.
They’ve probably been assigned to the clean-up task, packing the torture devices and gathering the ammo before moving on to the next victim.
Hamlet said: “Readiness is all.”
He never had a back attack, I think.
Thursday, February 24, 2011
Flying: dreams and nightmares
I think it's true: flying is for the birds.
Unfortunately, humans think they need to get places faster, following the crow's flight.
So we hop (shuffle?) on a huge aluminum bird, and dream of good things to come.
Mostly, they don't.
Like a recent flight from Grand Rapids to Seattle, via Minneapolis, of course.
The weather turned on us, and we simmered on the tarmac in MPLS for more than an hour.
Minneapolis can be a cold place, but not in August.
And the nearly 200 hot bodies on the 757-300 kept breathing in stale air and emitting hot air,
The weather turned on us, and we simmered on the tarmac in MPLS for more than an hour.
Minneapolis can be a cold place, but not in August.
And the nearly 200 hot bodies on the 757-300 kept breathing in stale air and emitting hot air,
for only one of the plane's A/C's was working.
I tried shallow breathing and briefly considered requesting the lowering of an oxygen mask.
Eventually we turned our tail end to the thunder, rain, and lightning, and went airborne.
By that time everybody needed a shower, another reason for shallow nose breathing.
I'd like to stop here, in mid-flight, for the situation is about to get worse.
But we were not treated to supplemental oxygen, nor to parachutes.
So we keep flying, but I'll make it short for unpleasant memories' sake.
You see, the stale air eventually became acrid with smoke.
Flight attendants scurried about, re-seating people in emergency exit seats that suddenly had become uncomfortable for them.
The captain's voice informed us of an emergency, requiring him to land at the nearest airport.
We were over Montana, not exactly rife with commercial airports.
We were over Montana, not exactly rife with commercial airports.
But from our altitude of nearly 40,000 feet we could, perhaps, safely coast to Spokane, WA.
And we did, met by a spate of emergency vehicles.
The airport at after 10 at night was pretty much asleep.
There was nothing to eat.
There was nothing to eat.
And the substitute plane from Seattle wouldn't do the pickup till about 3 in the morning.
We became campers of a sort that night, but not happy ones.
But there's always hope for a better return flight, right?
Right!
The return flight started auspiciously when Delta called around 7:30 in the morning to tell us that our flight was confirmed and would leave as given at 12:20.
It’s always nice to be confirmed, isn't it. But our son with whom we had been staying was not able to access boarding passes online for us out ofSeattle
Still, we trusted our itinerary info from Delta, and confidently strode up to theAlaska Minneapolis Alaska
However, the kiosk “told” us to go find an agent. We did. That agent went in search of another agent. That other agent promptly closed her counter to other clients after taking one look at our schedule and her screen. We stood there in bemused expectation, wondering what sort of misadventure was awaiting us this time. We stood there a long time, as she made phone calls, punched keyboards, and kept staring at her enigmatic screen.
Finally, she confided the sinister details: since we had landed – by virtue of unacknowledged equipment failure – inSpokane rather than our scheduled destination, Delta had mistakenly re-scheduled our return flight out of Spokane Alaska
She invited us to go for a walk with her. She led. We followed. She walked all the way to Delta, elbowed her way through the waiting crowd, got the ears of an agent, and then another agent. Eagerly she looked him in the eyes as she asked, “May I leave this in your competent hands?” Then she left, looking much relieved.
I looked at the agent’s hands, felt some doubt, but made the intentional choice of courting optimism.
It took quite some time. Yes, what a good thing our son had dropped us 2 ½ hours before scheduled departure.
At last the man smiled at us and said, “This will work in your favor.”
That sounded good to our ears, though it was especially our wearying feet that needed favor. But what was the favor?
I was hoping FIRST CLASS, of course.
“It’s a Delta flight that leaves at 1:10 and will still get you there in time to catch your flight to GR. But we have no seats left in coach, so I’m putting you in FIRST CLASS.”
And I said, “Ah, some compensation at last for the troubled flight coming here.” But inside I hurrahed a lot louder. And we looked at each other with an expectant smile of much pleasure to come: priority boarding, wide comfortable seats, drinks, dinner on plates, maybe fillet mignon, luxury for almost 3 hours!
Who said that life isn’t fair, eh? It was smiling on us right then and there.
The man with the competent hands handed us the first class tickets. Without even looking at them, I stuck them securely in my pocket where no one could snatch them away.
We joined the long security check line, not minding much at all, and even hoping the PSA personnel would steal a glance at our ticket long enough to notice that we were FIRST CLASS –bound. That should be enough for them to think twice about making us open a bag for individual inspection.
On our way to the gate area, we passed a number of enticing eating places. We smiled somewhat condescendingly in their direction, relishing the fact that we were bound for more sumptuous dining, free!
After reaching the gate area, Ruth had to make one of her not infrequent visits to a resting place nearby. When she returned, I said, “Follow me.” As has been her well-practiced custom, she obliged readily. I led her to a nearbyDelta Sky Club Center Day Pass
We settled in comfortably, helped ourselves to a buffet of minor goodies, making sure our appetites would not be unduly compromised. I fiddled eagerly, but vainly, to connect my gadgets to the free Wi-Fi; only our son may have the answer why my i-pake and netbook are allergic to unfamiliar hookups. After much time-wasting, I comforted myself with the thought I would have another chance in FIRST CLASS, where everything would be perfect.
It’s always nice to be confirmed, isn't it. But our son with whom we had been staying was not able to access boarding passes online for us out of
Still, we trusted our itinerary info from Delta, and confidently strode up to the
However, the kiosk “told” us to go find an agent. We did. That agent went in search of another agent. That other agent promptly closed her counter to other clients after taking one look at our schedule and her screen. We stood there in bemused expectation, wondering what sort of misadventure was awaiting us this time. We stood there a long time, as she made phone calls, punched keyboards, and kept staring at her enigmatic screen.
Finally, she confided the sinister details: since we had landed – by virtue of unacknowledged equipment failure – in
She invited us to go for a walk with her. She led. We followed. She walked all the way to Delta, elbowed her way through the waiting crowd, got the ears of an agent, and then another agent. Eagerly she looked him in the eyes as she asked, “May I leave this in your competent hands?” Then she left, looking much relieved.
I looked at the agent’s hands, felt some doubt, but made the intentional choice of courting optimism.
It took quite some time. Yes, what a good thing our son had dropped us 2 ½ hours before scheduled departure.
At last the man smiled at us and said, “This will work in your favor.”
That sounded good to our ears, though it was especially our wearying feet that needed favor. But what was the favor?
I was hoping FIRST CLASS, of course.
“It’s a Delta flight that leaves at 1:10 and will still get you there in time to catch your flight to GR. But we have no seats left in coach, so I’m putting you in FIRST CLASS.”
And I said, “Ah, some compensation at last for the troubled flight coming here.” But inside I hurrahed a lot louder. And we looked at each other with an expectant smile of much pleasure to come: priority boarding, wide comfortable seats, drinks, dinner on plates, maybe fillet mignon, luxury for almost 3 hours!
Who said that life isn’t fair, eh? It was smiling on us right then and there.
The man with the competent hands handed us the first class tickets. Without even looking at them, I stuck them securely in my pocket where no one could snatch them away.
We joined the long security check line, not minding much at all, and even hoping the PSA personnel would steal a glance at our ticket long enough to notice that we were FIRST CLASS –bound. That should be enough for them to think twice about making us open a bag for individual inspection.
On our way to the gate area, we passed a number of enticing eating places. We smiled somewhat condescendingly in their direction, relishing the fact that we were bound for more sumptuous dining, free!
After reaching the gate area, Ruth had to make one of her not infrequent visits to a resting place nearby. When she returned, I said, “Follow me.” As has been her well-practiced custom, she obliged readily. I led her to a nearby
We settled in comfortably, helped ourselves to a buffet of minor goodies, making sure our appetites would not be unduly compromised. I fiddled eagerly, but vainly, to connect my gadgets to the free Wi-Fi; only our son may have the answer why my i-pake and netbook are allergic to unfamiliar hookups. After much time-wasting, I comforted myself with the thought I would have another chance in FIRST CLASS, where everything would be perfect.
When the time drew nigher for eventual boarding, I glanced at our seating numbers. I was assigned to A 6 and Ruth to A 3! Well, surely the nice person at the Sky Club desk could speedily straighten that out. I marched my documents to her. She took one look and blanched. I had seen that same look on the Alaskan’s face. She started punching, screening, calling, conferring with her colleague at the desk. It took a long time. She called a supervisor to come and help, but no one came. At last she handed our precious but confused seating assignments to her colleague, and told him she was out of there, unable and by now very unwilling to spend any more time on this vexing phenomenon.
The colleague’s explanation came in bits and pieces: we should not have been assigned to first class b/c we had coach tickets. BUT THE MAN WITH THE HANDS SAID THERE WAS NO PLACE FOR US IN COACH, THEREFORE THE ONLY OPTION WAS FIRST CLASS! No, we could not be seated in first class, we would have seats in coach. BUT COACH WAS FULL! Your seats are 25A and 25B.
The colleague’s explanation came in bits and pieces: we should not have been assigned to first class b/c we had coach tickets. BUT THE MAN WITH THE HANDS SAID THERE WAS NO PLACE FOR US IN COACH, THEREFORE THE ONLY OPTION WAS FIRST CLASS! No, we could not be seated in first class, we would have seats in coach. BUT COACH WAS FULL! Your seats are 25A and 25B.
There was no time left to contest; no time left to buy some eats to hold us till home arrival time; only time to join the long line of coach-bound victims.
Thus instead of a one-time treatment befitting a baron and his spouse, we became sardines on yet another B757-300, munching not on mouth-watering appetizers and fortifying steak and lobster in capacious surroundings, but in straight-jacket positions on pretzels and cookies from the teeny-weeny Delta packages denoting the airline’s munificence.
Fortunately, we both had, in our circumstances, much-needed literature to read: I “The Christian Atheist” and Ruth “Love Mercy.”
When we finished, we switched.
I think it’s easier to reach a slight degree of sanctification when grandiose dreams of the high life have collapsed into a coach seat on a 757.
We hungered and thirsted for a china-served dinner and cloth napkins and a glass of Merlot.
Instead we “suffered” a bit, more ready to identify with the suffering subjects of those books.
And we made it all the way home, on time!
Hungry, weary, but safe.
I do have something I’d like to say to that Delta agent with the competent hands, though.
Thus instead of a one-time treatment befitting a baron and his spouse, we became sardines on yet another B757-300, munching not on mouth-watering appetizers and fortifying steak and lobster in capacious surroundings, but in straight-jacket positions on pretzels and cookies from the teeny-weeny Delta packages denoting the airline’s munificence.
Fortunately, we both had, in our circumstances, much-needed literature to read: I “The Christian Atheist” and Ruth “Love Mercy.”
When we finished, we switched.
I think it’s easier to reach a slight degree of sanctification when grandiose dreams of the high life have collapsed into a coach seat on a 757.
We hungered and thirsted for a china-served dinner and cloth napkins and a glass of Merlot.
Instead we “suffered” a bit, more ready to identify with the suffering subjects of those books.
And we made it all the way home, on time!
Hungry, weary, but safe.
I do have something I’d like to say to that Delta agent with the competent hands, though.
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