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]

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.”

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.

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.

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 reached the rank of corporal.  He was a good soldier; love for his adopted country grew.

And also for his sweetheart.
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 the Michigan State University extension program.

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.

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.

But her heart was too full, her feelings too charged.

Ming was in the U.S. for a year as a visiting scholar.  As an English professor, she had received a leave from her university to make a special study of the connections between the Bible and Western literature.  Shortly before her coming, Ming had been baptized as a new Christian believer.  She had much to learn about the faith, and she was eagerly making the most of it.
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 the U.S.  Her parents’ only child, Ming had been very close and very fond of her mother.  Very protective too, for she knew of her father’s mistreatment.  Her mother had been longsuffering in a loveless marriage.  She had been kind, gentle, loving, peaceful, faithful.  She had little reason for joy in her life, but her goodness to her husband, to her daughter, and to others had been a genuine dimension of her character.  She was everything that Ming held in high esteem, that she treasured, that she loved with all her heart. She was still in mourning when I first met her.

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. 

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 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.

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.

Ming has been back in China for a year now.
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.  

   

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.

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?

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.

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 cactus.

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.

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. 

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.

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, 

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.

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.

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 of Seattle, and that was an omen.
Still, we trusted our itinerary info from Delta, and confidently strode up to the Alaska kiosk when our son dropped us off at Seatac.  Delta told us on the itinerary that they would use Alaska Airlines to fly us to Minneapolis.  Our son told us how good that was, for Alaska doesn’t use the terrible 757-300, comfortable for sardines only.
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 Spokane rather than our scheduled destination, Delta had mistakenly re-scheduled our return flight out of Spokane as well.  Hence, Alaska had no seats for us.
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 Delta Sky Club Center, where only the very elite hang out.  In my hands I held two small tickets, a Day Pass given some time ago after another misadventurous Delta flight.  I had remembered to stick them in my billfold for this trip, though I had no illusion that we would actually have time or occasion to take advantage.  But here we were, a fitting prelude to our forthcoming first classiness.
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.

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.