It's Friday. But Sunday's coming.

It's Friday. But Sunday's coming.

These few words have been floating through my mind since I woke up this morning. Good Friday has always felt a little different from all the other days of the year, and this year was no different. Amid all the 'noise' this world offers, we hope for a new beginning...for new life...for the eternal Sunday that will be when Jesus returns.

It's Friday. But Sunday's coming.


While preparing to start my day, I glanced at the news feed on my phone. I was reminded of the brokenness that we all endure on level or another - whether personally, communally, or globally.

Rob Ford.
Brussels.
Jian Ghomeshi.
Ice Storm.
Parkinson's Disease.
Zika Virus.
Refugees.
Food insecurity.
Unemployment.

It's Friday. But Sunday's coming.

This morning's service gave me another opportunity to feel Jesus' presence. I had an opportunity to participate in the Lord's Supper - or Holy Communion - in a way I've never done before. I was a 'cup bearer' - meaning I held the cup containing juice, which participants dipped their piece of bread into before eating. While they dipped their bread, I was to say to each guest, "The blood of Christ shed for you."

The blood of Christ shed for you, Wilfred.
The blood of Christ  shed  for you, Rudy.
The blood of Christ shed for you, Harrison.
The blood of Christ shed  for you, Jane.

I would have liked to have added:

It's Friday. But Sunday's coming.

The blood of Christ shed for you, Sonja.
The blood of Christ shed for you, Darlene.
The blood of Christ shed for you, Elliot.
The blood of Christ shed for you, Allan.

It's Friday. But Sunday's coming.

The blood of Christ shed for me.
The blood of Christ shed for you.

Did you hear that faint rumble? No, it's not the ice falling from tree limbs and roof tops, it's the angels preparing to roll the stone away from Jesus' grave.

It's Friday.

Sunday's coming.

A Very, Merry Easter!

I remember standing a few steps away from where all the excitement was and I was smiling. I couldn't get the most ridiculous and silly grin off my face. She - my wife - got most of the attention, and I was the 'coat rack'...and that was just fine with me. Guests would come into our room, shake our hands, (I mean...mostly her hands), maybe leave a gift, balloons, or flowers, and then leave. Smiles. Hugs. Tears. Pictures. Stories. And more stories. I've had the utmost pleasure of experiencing these moments twice...at the births of our three children. These brief encounters with joy and happiness usually went on for several days and then life would go back 'to normal'. Or not.

Actually, as I recall, life never returned to 'normal'. Unannounced visitors stopped coming by. The phone was quiet. Cards and flowers stopped arriving. It was a stark contrast to the rush of excitement that was so palpable just days before. As new parents, we were vacillating between joyful anticipation and terrifying fear. When the last of the visitors left, I recall looking at my wife, who then was gently rocking two babies in unison, and saying, "Now what are we supposed to do?" The lives of our son and daughter that were hidden 'skin-deep' for nine months were now an actuality, and our lives have never resembled anything close to that of pre-parenthood. Life again would change dramatically, although with more predictability, with the birth of our third child, a daughter, just three short years later.

With all these changes came a few constants - smiles and tears, laughing and crying, controlled chaos and serene calm. We learned quickly enough that the crying will stop - eventually. Temper tantrums will become hugs and cuddles - eventually. And the occasional "I wish you were more like..." will become "I'm so thankful you are..." - eventually. Parenthood is like a roller coaster with near vertical drops without any warning, and twists and turns so sudden and unexpected. But I know that in a few minutes I'll be getting off the ride, walking down the steps toward the exit, and I'll look back at the ride and say, "Let's do it again!" And, like a kid, I'll run back to be first in line.

This Christmas, I wondered if God smiled proudly when the shepherds and wise men visited Jesus, Mary, and Joseph. Was he taking in all that he could? Was he listening to Mary recount the story of not being able to find a place to sleep? I know Joseph must have...but did God? We know the angels rejoiced, but what did God do? With my finite i.e. human understanding of God's majesty and omnipotence I wondered if God wept when Jesus was born? Did he cry knowing that his son would endure the slings and arrows of humankind? Did he mourn knowing that his only son would endure hell and agony for three days? Was he anxious to get the whole crucifixion and resurrection thing over and done with knowing that the day would be here before 'he knew it'? I don't know.

I know one thing...Jesus' heavenly father never said, "Lets do it again."

About thirty-three years later, somewhere on a hill outside of Jerusalem, the Father, through his Son, declared, "It is finished."

 

Merry Easter to all, and to all a good night!

 

One of my favourite words

Before you start guessing all sorts of possibilities of what my favourite word is, let me just say that...no...it's not 'hamburgers', 'fries', or even 'chocolate' - contrary to what you think you may know about me! It has nothing to do with the savoury delights that tease the tongue for brief moments at a time. Ask me around my usual 'feeding-time' and I might change my mind. Might. #Might.

For me, this favourite four-letter word packs a punch; and I was reminded of its power again during a Christmas open house, which was held at my Mom's retirement home last week. Every year, the staff at the Village Manor of Waterdown, hold a special evening where residents can share memories of Christmas' past, sing a favourite Christmas carol, or read an amusing story. One of this year's contributors was a 90 year old resident who sang "Have Yourself a Very, Merry Christmas" followed by "Silent Night". It wasn't this lady's singing that caused my throat to tighten, and my eyes to moisten, it was because my Mom was singing quietly along. She wasn't struggling to say the words. She sang them with ease. I understood her fully...and it brought me HOPE.

It brought me HOPE of the things to come because my Mom hasn't been able to speak clearly for almost 20 years due to a debilitating stroke she suffered in 1996. For some reason, that I don't pretend to understand, my Mom can sing more clearly than she can speak. Mom's inability to speak clearly has had such a profound impact on her life that, unfortunately, none of us can truly appreciate - except those who suffer from the same restriction. Nevertheless, on that evening, I strained to tune out the singer on the stage so I could focus on my Mom's words. On that night, my hope was renewed - my hope for a new world, when Jesus will make all things new, and when my Mom can carry on a conversation without any struggle or frustration.

You see - it's not like a wish. I wish for snow on Christmas Day, I wish that the Leafs would make the playoffs (you have to start somewhere!), or I wish that a new career might come sooner than later. All these things happening would be nice and very welcomed. No, this was hope. This was the kind of hope we read about in Hebrews 11:1 - where faith is described as “the assurance of things hoped for, the conviction of things not seen”. When I hear Mom singing with ease, I have a confident expectation that Mom's speech will return one day because these glimpses into the future give me the assurance and conviction that Jesus' return WILL happen.

 

Two days later, we lit the second purple candle of Advent called the Candle of Hope, which represents the hope of Christ coming. As the candle was lit, I could hear again my Mom softly singing,

 

"Silent Night, Holy Night,

all is calm, all is bright

Round yon virgin, mother, and child

Holy infant, tender and mild

Sleep in heavenly peace,

Sleep in heavenly peace."

 

And I prayed for Mom. I prayed that one day I  would hear her speak without frustration and without pain. On that day of Christ's return, I will hear her speak as she did when I was younger. It's my firm hope...not a wish.

Canada didn't flinch then and it shouldn't now

I only had to re-read a few stories written by family members about the first few days in Canada to be reminded of the sacrifices made by their sponsors. A name here, a reference there - all but a mere mention of the men and women who laid down their self interests to sponsor immigrants 'fleeing' from a country. My grandparents, like many of the 100,000 or so Dutch immigrants who made their way to Canada in the early 1950's, in a sense, fled a country where opportunity and hope for a better future were practically non-existent in post WWII Europe. Theirs wasn't a flight from death and despair like today's Syrian refugees, theirs was a flight toward a brighter future - they were in a broader sense: economic refugees. Their home had suffered the ravages of war and oppression; brothers and sisters, sons and daughters, aunts and uncles had died at the hands of the Nazi regime; they experienced starvation and deprivation; and their cities and villages were erased from the face of this world by a madman who believed in a Third Reich. After the dust had settled and victory won, the survivors needed sponsors to make a fresh start in strange home on a new continent.

On board 'The Veendam' (1952) -
 my Dad is on the far right.

We don't think of the sponsors as heroes. Unfortunately, they are the forgotten. The memories of sponsors continue to evaporate with every immigrant's death. Yet - it was the sponsorship of immigrants that made it possible for new beginnings to take root. Without sponsors, my grandfather's dream of owning his own farm would not have been fulfilled. Without sponsors, hundreds of thousands of immigrants in generations past could not have made a new start. Like it or not, I'm willing to suggest many of my readers have benefitted one way or another from the sponsorship of strangers.

So, why are many Canadians raising red flags about refugee settlement? Have we learned nothing from history? Are we embracing protectionism and fanning the flames of xenophobia? The likelihood of bringing a terrorist among the refugees is similar to the risk of bringing in Nazi sympathizers, and those guilty of committing atrocities against the Jewish people. It did happen - ex-Nazi soldiers and those who denied the Holocaust were among the boatloads of economic refugees. But, Canada didn't flinch. While it's true that not all sponsorship stories are lined with butterfly kisses many stories do reflect the unselfishness that most of the sponsors possessed.

If we choose to ignore the political or economic refugee, we choose to hoard our wealth. We are hoarding the wealth of Canada that the sponsors of our immigrant families chose to share, if we deny the same to the Syrian, Iraqi, Palestinian, or Sudanese refugee. Look back in history, and to more recent times, to the refugees from Hungary, Vietnam, Serbia, Croatia, Kosovo, and Somalia. Have all these people committed atrocities or perpetrated violence in their new homes? I'm willing to go out on a limb and say no more so than the 'natural-born' Canadian.

If the children of immigrants who made Canada their home deny entry to political refugees by choosing not to sponsor, we forsake those who welcomed our 'parents'. We forsake the sponsors who lined up along the ports of Halifax, who met the 'refugees' at the end of Pier 21, and who waited for the immigrants to clear customs and security.

But, it's much more than forsaking the memory of our sponsors. If you believe that you were rescued from slavery into a land flowing with milk and honey i.e. slavery from death and sin into eternal life, then welcoming the foreigner, stranger, and alien within our collective walls isn't an option. It's a command. In fact, if your truly believe that you were rescued from sin and are now alive in Christ, love for the foreigner, alien, and refugee will be a natural outpouring of your gratitude for God's free gift of salvation in Jesus Christ. Remember - God's love didn't end with simply sponsorship. He met us at the cross, picked us up, and paid the ultimate price so we could live.

Ours is a nation flowing with milk and honey...wine and cheese...beer and wings. Share the wealth and don't flinch now, Canada!

Waiting for the sun to rise - #comequicklylordjesus

Just a short time ago when cutting flowers this fall, I frequently found myself looking eastward for the rising of the sun - especially on days when the morning dew had fallen more heavily on the plants, and when temperatures hovered a few degrees above freezing. Slowly, and with predictable precision, the sun would rise above the row of pine trees along my field's perimeter; and finally I would feel its promised warmth on my back...and on my hands. Aching hands that from the cold and dew resembled more like claws frozen in time (think of an eagle's talons on the wall of a taxidermist) than that of dexterous and flexible appendages they were made to be! It never took too long - once the sun rose above the trees and its warmth penetrated my gloves - for my hands to return once again to full usefulness. And, it could never happen soon enough.

 

I was reminded of these cold mornings spent in the flower field during a recent meeting. The facilitator read aloud Psalm 130 as a prelude to our round-table discussion. And, when he read verse 6, "I wait for the Lord, more than watchmen wait for the morning, more than watchmen wait for the morning", it made me wonder if my longing for the autumn sun to rise in my field was similar to the author's 'waiting' for the morning. Did his body ache from 'waiting' as my hands ached to be relieved from the cold? Much like the sun being the only salve to my discomfort, was he racked with an internal longing like a homesickness that only a mother's touch can relieve?

I wonder. I wonder, too, if my childhood minister's prayerful plea, "Come quickly, Lord Jesus", had a tinge of homesickness and bodily ache like that I imagine of the psalmist. It was the prayer that I recall causing me - a pre-ten year old boy - to recoil with fear. Each time he prayed it, I had the same thoughts - Jesus, don't come yet, because I have so much to do. (With all the singing I heard they do in heaven it didn't sound to appealing to a pre-teenaged boy!) But Sunday after Sunday, no matter how much internal pleading went on inside my head for him not to, Reverend Zantingh would say those words in his prayer, "Come quickly, Lord Jesus". It was a plea, and, sometimes to my horror, he even said it twice.

Strange though, how almost 40 years later, my pastor's plea for Jesus to return quickly has become my plea. It feels like a yearning - like frozen hands aching for the sun to rise. It feels like the separation anxiety that a young boy experienced during his first days of kindergarten. It feels like the homesickness of an 11 year old boy that longed to be in the comfort of his own home. I know...I was that boy.

If you're waiting for the sun to rise,
for floods to recede,
for hearts to thaw,
for heartaches to heal,
for loneliness to dispel, 
for forgiveness to fall,
for peace to endure,
for laughter to ensue,
for tears to dry,
then wait, wait for the Jesus' return.

Like God's promise found in the presence of a rainbow, I know of no greater hope and promise for the future of humankind than Jesus' return.

#comequicklylordjesus #comequicklylordjesus

"I wonder God if you'll take my hand"

"Mother buries 3 children and her father following a week-end crash."

     Because I live, you also will live.

"A mother to four young girls succumbs to cancer."

     Because I live, you also will live.

"A sister in Christ shares her testimony about her terminal illness."

     Because I live, you also will live.

Three sentences.

Seven deaths.

Countless tears.

One promise.

In the span of two days, I read the tragic headline about the mother burying her children; heard the news about the death of an old friend's wife through another friend; and listened to a testimony of a dying sister in Christ shared with us by her husband. Sometimes when we hear tragic news we hardly give it a second thought. At other times news like this can shake our foundations and we ask questions about life and its meaning.

So what are we supposed to do with this? Why does a mom have to bury not just one but all three of her children plus her father? How is a father to raise four young girls without their mommy? Why is a godly man asked to live out his retirement years with out his dearly loved wife of 27 years. I ask lots of questions...but receive few, if any, answers.

But amidst all the deafening questions that are screaming for answers we hear Jesus' voice rise above the noise and whisper his promise, "Do not let your hearts be troubled...Because I live, you also will live" (John 14) and we remember that our life on earth is but a blink of an eye compared to the eternity we will spend in Heaven. When we remember this promise from Jesus - death's sting is less painful, and its finality less dreadful if we have placed our trust and faith in the only person who died and was raised victoriously.

If I believed that all there is to life is a few short years and then we die, I would find no consolation, no reasonable cause for hope, and no ultimate purpose to carry on.

However, it is becoming more and more apparent as I get older, that time is slipping away and the need to share the saving news of Christ is more urgent than ever. Too much time is wasted on 'getting ahead', crossing off 'bucket list' items, feeding destructive habits, reopening old wounds, and not letting go of the past.  The source of our only hope and comfort in life and in death is Jesus Christ. Without him, there is no hope for you and I. This message of hope doesn't get any clearer!

Frances Angermeyer, a WWII soldier, wrote this dramatic poem of his own conversion in 1942.

Lord God, I have never spoken to you,

but now I want to say how do you do?

You see God they told me you didn't exist

and like a fool I believed all this.

Last night from a shell hole I saw your sky,

I figured right then they had told me a lie.

Had I taken time to see the things you made,

I would have know they weren't calling a spade a spade.

I wonder God if you'll take my hand,

somehow I feel that you'll understand.

Funny how I had come to this hellish place,

before I had time to see your face.

I guess there really isn't much more to say,

but I'm sure glad God that I met you today.

I guess zero hour will soon be here,

But I'm not afraid since I know you're near.

The signal, well God I'll have to go,

I like you lots, I want you to know.

Look now this will be a horrible fight,

who knows I may come to your house tonight.

Though I wasn't friendly to you before,

I wonder God if you'd wait at my door.

Look I'm crying, I'm shedding tears,

I'll have to go now, God, good-bye.

Strange now since I met you,

I'm not afraid to die.

If you live because Jesus lives in you; if your peace within comes from knowing Christ as your Saviour; if you believe that death does not have the final say, don't wait to share it. Someone's life depends on it.

If you want to know more about this faith I have in Christ, if you want to be convinced of Christ's authenticity, then I urge you check out Lee Strobel's, a former legal journalist for The Chicago Tribune and one-time atheist, compelling argument: "The Case for Christ: Evidence for the Resurrection".



Hold on to these words

"The life of mortals is like grass, they flourish like a flower of the field; the wind blows over it and it is gone, and its place remembers it no more. Psalm 103:15, 16

With arms slightly out stretched, he harbored himself between two symbols that time can never erase...and today it only seemed even more appropriate. His left hand was on the baptismal font and his right hand rested on the pulpit that holds a carving of a cross. His back was turned to the congregation as he sang the words to "10,000 Reasons" that were printed on the screen at the front of the church. On one occasion, I noticed he reached into his pocket for a cloth to wipe away what I can only imagine to be tears. I don't know if this was his usual stance with  his arms extended outwards resting on symbols of Christian sacraments as if to give him support. But on this occasion - his farewell sermon - Pastor Paul anchored himself to two undying truths: the cleansing water of baptism and the saving blood of the cross.

As a visitor at this morning's service at Dundas Calvin Christian Reformed Church (the church of my youth and teenage years), I was blessed to hear Pastor Paul Vanden Brink's plea to "remember the cross". After 10 years of service, and probably close to delivering 1000 messages, all filled with equal measures of urgency and passion I'm sure, he implored his 'flock' to remember Christ's sacrifice for you and me; to remember the cross. We were reminded that at the end of our earthly days, the cross is the only thing that matters in life - not your job, career, family, house - or anything that you take pride in. It's not how religious you are, how faithful you've been to your spouse, how good of a parent you are to your children, how 'vice-less' you are, or how you never cheat the tax man. If you don't know the bitter taste of the cross, you'll never savour its sweet message of hope. If you haven't heard your own voice accusing Jesus as he hung on Calvary's cross, you'll never hear his welcome, "Well done, good and faithful servant". Christ's death equally and without prejudice atoned the sins of the repentant hooker and the pious 'habit' wearing nun. This - Christ's death and resurrection - is the ONLY thing that lasts forever. Forget everything else.

It's this matter of 'passing things' that's been on my mind lately. Like the verse from Psalm 103 above, we're reminded that we are here for only a short time. Yesterday, on my birthday, God in his mercy blessed me with another year. I think it's only natural that as we get older we start looking back and evaluating our life. Do I have unfulfilled dreams? What will my legacy be? Have I been the son, brother, husband and father that God wants me to be? All these questions inevitably and invariably end with feelings of regret and failure. Because, after I die, and my great-grand children's grand children are nipping at the heels of their parents, no one will either think of or remember me..or you. That's true for 99.99% of the population. I hope this isn't a revelation to anyone! Really.

So, I can spend lots of time trying to create a 'perfect life'. I can buy the latest toys, live in the nicest home, create precious moments by the vacations I take. I can build an irresistible online profile that everyone would admire, have a high powered career, or even be a devoted homemaker. But it's like the flower - here today and gone tomorrow. Poof. Gone. Finished. What then?

It's the 'what then' question that was still floating in my thoughts this morning as I prepared myself for worship. And in a moment what felt like divine providence I saw the symbols that Pastor Paul positioned himself between. The refreshing, cleansing water of the font where I was baptised as an infant and the empty cross where my Jesus once hung. That's all I have...and that's all I really need.

"But from everlasting to everlasting the Lord’s love is with those who fear him, and his righteousness with their children’s children—" Psalm 103:17

One of the reasons why I'm assured that faith, hope, and love will always remain

We received this card from an unknown
 flower customer in the dead of winter.

I could go on a rant about the absurd #justiceforCecil petition going around in comparison to ISIS' crimes against humanity. Or, I could write an exposé on the bare breasted rally in support of women's right to go topless held in Waterloo, ON; or, even have an over inflated discussion of Tom Brady's 4 game NFL suspension for allegedly deflating footballs in what is known as 'deflategate'. But, it's a long week-end in Ontario and I'm going light on words, heavy on substance, and hope to generate a few smiles!

This may not come as a surprise to you, but writing this blog is strictly volunteer! I do it because I love to share my life and faith through the wonder of a pen, or pixels in the case of the Internet. So, in order to "put bread (and the occasional steak) on the table", my wife and I own and operate a small, cut flower farm in southern Ontario. In addition to selling cut flowers (mainly dahlias) to wholesale florists we also set up a self-serve flower cart on most days during the growing season. Being a seasonal, self employed 'farmer' (I use that term loosely) who relies on a 3 month window to earn a wage that's supposed to last for 12 months, I've really come to appreciate the phrase 'cash is king'! The grocery money that comes from the cash box is usually well received and well timed! Good will and good intent are nice ideas, but the bank doesn't accept them in lieu of money. Head scratcher.

Sometimes, it's not the money in the box that causes us to smile and breath a sigh of relief. It's the occasional note from our regular customers.

Like this note that arrived this past Thursday:

"I.O.U. 15 cents. I will be back"

We sell our flower bunches for $5 each and, on most days, the dollar amount in the box matches the total number of flower bunches sold. Like I said - most days!

Many times, we've been asked by customers if most people are honest, and if we've ever had money stolen. I can say categorically YES...and....NO respectively! We're of the opinion and belief that if someone went through the hassle and risk of removing the cash box, then they probably need the money more than we do. And, if they wanted a free bunch of flowers for their table, or give to their girlfriend, then hopefully they'll enjoy them a little less than if they had been paid for!

Then on Friday (the following day), we were welcomed by this note:

"I'm back. Only have 25 cents so Y.O.M. 10 cents. Just kidding. I love the flowers and look forward to seeing them at the end of your driveway each year. Thank you for having faith in people's honesty."

These notes are rare, but very much appreciated! This person took the time to prepare a hand written note and meticulously wrap it around a quarter so that it would fit in the coin slot of the money box.

Would we have noticed if this person didn't pay the 15 cents owing? Truthfully - no. And, it certainly wouldn't have deterred us from selling flowers at the end of our driveway.

It made me think though - our intention was not to show that we have faith in people's honesty by having a self serve stand. (It's really because we can't afford to pay someone to attend the road side stand full time!) But, by having a self serve stand, someone felt honored and respected that we would place our trust in them, a stranger.

In today's society, suspicion, anxiety, and fear rule our lives. We encounter security cameras, armed patrol officers, drug smelling dogs, drones, and other invasive 'eyes in the sky' on a regular basis. Unfortunately, this is the norm and it goes mostly unnoticed. Occasionally though, small things are pointed out like this kind note from a stranger and we smiled. And, we're refreshed knowing that in the end, God reigns. And, because we know we've been made in God's image we're assured that things like faith, hope, and love will always remain. 1 Corinthians 13:13

A man and his tattered toy elephant

Ever see an adult clutching a stuffed toy or holding a blanket close to his or her face? I did last Sunday; and admittedly - I had to look twice, because it's not something you see everyday. I saw an adult man holding a stuffed toy very close to his chest. Accompanied by his caregiver/guide, this man, with apparent special needs, was a visitor in our church so I don't know his story. However, this scene of a man holding his tattered toy elephant got me to think...and smile.

What if we carried around with us a special blanket, a piece of cloth, or a stuffed animal? And, when we were upset or nervous we would hold it up close to our face and the world would return to its peaceful state? Imagine if that was the norm. We would get ready for work and run a checklist through our head - wallet ... yup .... keys ... yup ... lunch ... yup ... teddy bear ... yup. What if you didn't like to carry 'things' but liked to suck your thumb, pinky finger, or even a plastic soother? In today's culture, you'd be looked upon as quirky, in need of professional help...or needed simply to be left alone!

If you think about it, it's really not far-fetched. The truth is many of us carry around items, or engage in habits that we've adopted as adults to give us the 'comfort' we need; and we've become chained to them. We've exchanged our blankets and chew toys for cigarettes, alcohol, and sex. We've traded our thumbs for the casino, fast cars, and the latest pair of shoes. Food. Fashion. Alcohol. Cars. Houses. Hollywood. These things, in and of themselves of are not bad, but we can pour ourselves into them in hopes they'll bring us happiness...and the comfort that internally we all crave and seek to secure. Subtlety, our comforts become our chains and what once provided self-security becomes our jail keeper.

I've been sucked in, too. As a university student, I started engaging in excessive behaviors in search for my own comfort. Wracked by what was undiagnosed anxiety at the time, unknowingly I turned to harmful substances as a way to cope. Instead of turning to the faith preciously handed to me from my parents, schools, and church, I turned to the 'Porcelain God' and became an eager 'Bedside Believer'.

However, on a bed, tucked away at the back of a house in Eastown, Grand Rapids, MI, I remember  praying to God and saying these exact words, "Please God, whatever faith I still have in you, do not let me lose it! Please don't let me go." I knew that what I was doing was counter to God's will. You see - I still believed there was evil in the world.  And, since I believed there was such a thing as evil, then rationally I had to believe that holiness and righteousness were also present. So, whenever I remembered to do so I prayed that prayer.

This year - 2015 - marks twenty five years since graduating university. My life has changed radically. I'm no longer held by chains that were masterfully disguised as comfort. I'm thankful that God has released me from 'servitude' to things into 'service' to Him. Has it been easy? No. But, God met me where I was - he had been with me all along and was waiting patiently. He has truly become...my only comfort in life, and in death. He is neither fake nor imaginary...he is real, and you'll never have to re-sew any toy limbs that have fallen off from too much lovin'!


Heidelberg Catechism Q & A 1

Q. What is your only comfort
in life and in death?

 

A. That I am not my own,¹
but belong—

body and soul,
in life and in death—²

to my faithful Savior, Jesus Christ.³

He has fully paid for all my sins with his precious blood,⁴
and has set me free from the tyranny of the devil.⁵
He also watches over me in such a way⁶
that not a hair can fall from my head
without the will of my Father in heaven;⁷
in fact, all things must work together for my salvation.⁸

Because I belong to him,
Christ, by his Holy Spirit,
assures me of eternal life⁹
and makes me wholeheartedly willing and ready
from now on to live for him.¹⁰

¹ 1 Cor. 6:19-20
² Rom. 14:7-9
³ 1 Cor. 3:23; Titus 2:14
⁴ 1 Pet. 1:18-19; 1 John 1:7-9; 2:2
⁵ John 8:34-36; Heb. 2:14-15; 1 John 3:1-11
⁶ John 6:39-40; 10:27-30; 2 Thess. 3:3; 1 Pet. 1:5
⁷ Matt. 10:29-31; Luke 21:16-18
⁸ Rom. 8:28
⁹ Rom. 8:15-16; 2 Cor. 1:21-22; 5:5; Eph. 1:13-14
¹⁰ Rom. 8:1-17

Who invites someone to suffer and expects a 'Yes'?

I've heard it repeated twice now in the last few weeks. Both occasions were similar and both were celebrations of several young people publicly accepting Jesus . Each time the wording was unmistakably clear. It was an invitation to join in suffering. And, if I didn't know what the pastor meant, I'd probably make for the nearest exit...because I don't need an extra side dish of suffering...thank you very much. Truthfully and selfishly, suffering usually looks best on other people.

For those unfamiliar with Public Profession of Faith (as practiced in the Christian Reformed Church), this is a highly celebrated event in the lives of Christian believers where a person is asked several questions in front of a church regarding their Christian faith. And, if they agree and believe the statements of faith as presented, they answer in the affirmative: "I do". After which, the professing members are welcomed with these words, spoken by the minister presiding over the ceremony:

"I welcome you to full participation in the life of the church. I welcome you to its responsibilities, its joys, and its sufferings." Christian Reformed Church - Profession of Faith Form

"I welcome you to....its sufferings". I wonder how many people who hear those words think about the meaning of the invitation. What about people hearing those words for the first time? I mean - celebrating marriages, births and anniversaries are easy and natural. But suffering? Really? Why would I want to do that?

Here's why...and I can think of two answers, but there are probably more.

First - as crazy at it sounds, suffering draws people together. It unites. I think it probably draws more people together than a celebration (except maybe a royal wedding!). Recently, several people within my Christian family have either been diagnosed with cancer, lost dear loved ones to death, or have been involved in an accident. And amazingly, we are drawn to one another. In our shared tears, we become the hands and feet of Jesus and become his agents of peace and healing. In our shared humanity, we are called to cry with those who cry and laugh with those who laugh.

Second - this is where I put my theological glasses on, and is most likely what is meant by the pastor's welcome to the new members. When we suffer for the gospel; that is when we are verbally and/or physically attacked for our Christian faith, we suffer for Christ. The Bible says that when we have problems and trials this will help produce in us endurance. I like how The King James Version puts Romans 5:3 - "And not only so, but we glory in tribulations also: knowing that tribulation worketh patience." Paul wrote: “… indeed we share in His sufferings in order that we may also share in His glory. I consider that our present sufferings are not worth comparing with the glory that will be revealed in us” (Rom 8:17-18).

That's the best part is...if we share in Christ's suffering, we get to share in his glory! How cool is that?

It's easy to write this. I know. I just pray that when I get a side dish of suffering God will give me two things - the strength to 'walk the talk', and people to cry and laugh with. I've never worn a real crown!

Repeating mistakes, expecting different results

We pleaded using our best 'Robinese' but, they ignored us. We told them that ravenous creatures roamed late at night but, they told us they could handle it. We shared stories of previous squatters who boldly claimed the right to nest only to leave on a wing and a prayer - sans fledglings. Year...after year...after year.

You see, we have a covered porch that wraps around most of our house; and many of God's creatures, (some wanted, but many of them unwanted), share living and breathing space with us rent free. Some of our tenants, like our robin friends, have attempted to start a family in the rafters above a certain light fixture under our porch's roof. I guess the warmth and light create an ambience similar to a fireplace in a log cabin conducive to...oh, where was I? Back to the robins. We've never attempted to remove or discourage nest building activity because it usually happens in the span of what feels like "Hey, where'd that come from?" or so. And, more than that, have you ever studied how intricately built a bird's nest is? However, for all their ingenuity and craftiness, they really don't behave wisely or rationally.

I don't know if they are the same robins year after year, but today we witnessed the calamity all over again. The robins had spent the last few days building a nest, slightly to the left of last year's settlement; Mrs. Robin had laid her eggs and had started her 12 - 14 day staring competition with our straw filled scarecrow. Day 1 hadn't even concluded and her progeny fell to the paws of a ruthless, but I can only assume, hungry raccoon. Although, skunks are known to prey on bird eggs, too. Judging by the sort of 'nature' left behind, I'm going with a raccoon!

It's puzzling. Each year, the same scene happens over and over...like Groundhog Day with Bill Murray...but, this one never ends well - save for one mating season a few springs ago. Wouldn't it make sense if the local robin community banded together and taught each other about the perils of starting a family under the Vanderlaan porch - cozy and inviting as it might seem? If only last year's unsuccessful pairing could fly by and chirp, "Hey, we've flown a mile in your talons. We have a much better spot than that poor excuse for a bird house." Nope. Instead, this year's lovebirds thought, (and I use the term 'thought' loosely), this is the year that will be different only to fly away as empty nesters for all the wrong reasons yet again.

And, really, what am I thinking? They're birds!! I mean, if they were rational, and understood predator behavior, they wouldn't make the same mistake, ignore sage advice, or loving help from those who've been there, done that, and got the T-shirt.

So, for the purpose of this blog and really not for the benefit of robins who may or may not be able to read: to all those whose 'nest' is built on vulnerable perches, know that you're not alone. You're not the first person to build a nest where predators prowl. There is hope. More than that, there is help to rebuild.

When you're ready to fly, you won't be alone. Soar like an eagle, my friend, soar!

A red tulip, an Easter song, and an innocence found

1974. Huddled together in the shade of an overgrown juniper hedge; protected by the close proximity of their home, a boy and his older sister slowly and methodically scraped away the soil to excavate a crude grave. Not too deep - just deep enough to lay down the now deceased. After covering it so nothing of its temporal body was exposed, the boy's sister gently etched a picture of a cross in the dirt of the newly formed mound with the tip of her finger. Following a moment of silence, his sister began to somberly sing the mournful words of a famous hymn.

When I survey the wondrous cross
On which the Prince of glory died,
My richest gain I count but loss,
And pour contempt on all my pride.

A sniffle from the boy, then a tear, then crying - a crying that only a mother's trained ear could detect above the sound of vacuum cleaner nearing its own last day.
"Denise!" "Stop it! You're making him cry!", yelled my Mom from an open window.
And there it was - my first encounter with death and sadness and tears.
No - our beloved pet cat, George, hadn't died. He had been blessed with 10 lives.

I. Cried. Over. A. Dead. Red. Tulip.

That's all it was - a dead, red tulip! But, Denise captured the moment perfectly and she unknowingly preyed on my innocent understanding of life, death, and everything in between.

Nearing the grand age of 8, she was more worldly than my 5 plus years of life had afforded me. She knew 'the dust to dust' speech, the 'til we meet again' song, the reverent moment of silence, the imagery of the cross, the way around a songbook...she knew lots about life. And she knew how to make me cry.

Forbid it, Lord, that I should boast,
Save in the death of Christ my God!
All the vain things that charm me most,
I sacrifice them to His blood.

It all came together that day. My Oma Gerrits had died earlier that year; Easter had been celebrated a few weeks before; Denise just learned the words to an Easter hymn, and tulips were dying all around. It was providential perfection! Time for a funeral. All that was needed was a little weeping...and it didn't take long for the tear ducts to take their queue!

See from His head, His hands, His feet,
Sorrow and love flow mingled down!
Did e’er such love and sorrow meet,
Or thorns compose so rich a crown?

I'm often reminded of that May day of '74 and our innocent play whenever I hear that song. Sometimes my eyes fill with tears as I think of those close to me who have died. But it's only momentary sadness, because I'm quickly reminded of the joy that awaits when we will be reunited. Our separation is only for a short time. We have the rest of eternity to spend our time together. (And, if you're of Dutch descent, 'tip-toeing through the tulips' might be on God's eternal itinerary.)

Were the whole realm of nature mine,
That were a present far too small;
Love so amazing, so divine,
Demands my soul, my life, my all.

Maybe, if my Mom would have allowed Denise to sing a resurrection song, the tears would have given way to laughter. Who knows? Or, maybe, we might have found something else to bury and commemorate its life. Like a daffodil, a crocus, or even the remains of a mosquito that had just met its untimely, unfortunate, and unseemly death between my hand and my knee.

When 'the show must go on'

 

If Freddie Mercury and Queen's "The Show Must Go On" describes your life:

"The Show must go on!
The Show must go on!
Inside my heart is breaking,
My make-up may be flaking,
But my smile, still, stays on!

Whatever happens, I'll leave it all to chance.
Another heartache - another failed romance.
On and on!
Does anybody know what we are living for?"

 

then keep reading and maybe we can figure what this life's about and how to go on. (This blog won't take long!)

Freddie leaves us empty - he leaves us still questioning life and he doesn't give us an answer. He leaves it to chance and he's adamant that if anything else, "the show must go on". But how? By looking to him and his life? Now I know the music genre is drastically different but let's look at Carrie Underwood's latest "Something in the Water" to get a different look at life. Carrie sings:

 



"Couldn’t fight back the tears so I fell on my knees,
Saying,“God, if you’re there come and rescue me.”
Felt love pouring down from above,
Got washed in the water, washed in the blood and now I’m changed
And now I’m stronger.”

 

Unlike Freddie, Carrie doesn't look within herself to find strength and hope. Upon the invitation of a "preacher man", Carrie is lead to faith, is baptized, finds a source of strength, and trusts in "someone bigger than (her)". She sings that it "must have been something in the water". And she's "stronger".

That "something in the water" is grace - it's not magic. It's grace that is a gift of Jesus that doesn't require repayment. It's a grace that allows us to keep going in life. It allows us to continue...to continue with all of life's 'acts' and life's 'shows'. Grace carries us from Act 1 (our new life in Jesus on earth) to the final Act (our eternal life with Jesus in Heaven).

Jesus invites us to cast our life's struggles on him and he will carry them. You can look it up here - Matthew 11:28. He doesn't promise life to be easy or to be free of trials, but he does promise us that he'll carry us when times are tough and life seems hopeless.

If you're looking for hope; if you're looking for purpose, look up - not within - as Freddie tried. You won't find it there. Look up toward Golgatha on Good Friday and see the cross where Jesus died, look inside the empty tomb on Easter and...live.

When you feel lost; when your forget life's 'lines'; let Jesus take the lead role and the show will go on.

Believing is seeing

A friend of mine from Calvin College usually summarized any decision he made like this: "It's real simple." And then he'd proceed to give a lengthy explanation. So here's my attempts at using his template!

It's real simple. I don't want to 'write' to the choir anymore. I don't want to write 'eloquent' stories or commentaries and have hopes that people I know might 'like' them. I don't want to check how many people have read my blog, forwarded it, or shared it. For me - it has been too time consuming and I don't want my focus to be on the numbers - though web analysts will tell me different - and I've 'said' that I don't care about those things...but if truth be told...I do. And, if I was actually selling something, then it might be justified.

If I write, I want to touch someone's life in a meaningful way - not anecdotally. I want to be an extension of God's grace. Writing quietly in the background of life if that's where he puts me. Because if I try to manipulate life to my advantage, frustration always, and I mean ALWAYS ensues.

So if you have some time, I'll try to explain.

Would you ever search for something if you didn't believe it existed? After all, if it doesn't exist, then why bother? Why would this guy that I photographed on Myrtle Beach go through the expense of a metal detector (approx. $400) and a sand scoop (approx. $120), not to mention his opportunity cost (some ECON101 jargon for you), if he didn't believe he was going to find something of value?

For several days this past week I observed this guy (I'll call him Craig from now on) methodically combing the sand strip for buried treasure - maybe for a lost penny, quarter, diamond ring or an ancient coin washed ashore from the latest tide. Whatever he was looking for he was deadly serious about his search. The rubber boots, the long sleeves, a baseball cap, gloves, a small bag around his waist to store his treasures all gave Craig the appearance that he was on a mission and didn't want to be interrupted or delayed. By the looks of him, this was his job...not a week-end warrior in search of 'The Holy Grail'.

Had I another minute on the beach to summon courage I would have tried to ask Craig some questions - like what he considered his greatest find to be. I would also have asked him how he started his life as a 'treasure hunter'. Maybe Craig would have told me there was a long history of treasure hunters in his family. Or, he might have said it was because of someone he observed when he was aimlessly walking a beach in search of life's meaning one day. Whatever his story, I left wishing I could have asked him about it. And... I would have thanked him for the lesson he taught me. The lesson that believing is seeing.

You know that story in the Bible when the man said to Jesus, "I do believe, help my unbelief" (Mark 9:24)? That's the point! Hebrews 11:6 says: "anyone who comes to (God) must believe that he exists, and that he rewards those who earnestly seek him." I think we spend far too much time trying to prove to others that God exists - thinking that we need to win them to Christ through our arguments and lengthy treatises - that we fail to show Christ in our own actions. Skeptics of Christianity have to believe that they are seeing a difference in our lives. And, if curiosity grows by what they see, then they might want to search for "the difference maker" themselves. In effect, they believe something to exist and now they need something more evident to remove their unbelief.

It's like a business handshake, a personal testimony or a spouse's wedding vow. I don't have empirical evidence to accept it as true, but I believe its credibility based on reasons that have earned my trust. If contemporary science tells us that God is not real because the naturalists say there is no hard factual evidence, then we (Christians) need to be the evidence that offers hope to the skeptic.

Of course, we can't rely solely on our arguments or abilities. Ultimately, it depends upon him and our love for Christ.  Joe Boot writes in Beyond Opinion, "Without love for Christ first and foremost - no matter how strong our efforts - we will be only a resounding gong or a clanging cymbal (1Cor. 13.1). May God deliver us from our pride and use us graciously in his mercy".

Thanks for reading...'til we meet again. It may be sooner than you think!

In the meantime, I'll be praying for a new approach to my blog...and for that one person who might say, "Hey, tell me more about this Jesus guy...he sounds interesting".

One more thing before I go... Thanks Craig. You have no idea!

It happened on the 4th floor of Joseph Brant Hospital

My eyes have always been drawn to the seemingly insignificant details of life.

Detail such as the elderly lady - a patient at the hospital where we were singing on Christmas Day - who was 'parked' in the hallway, perhaps, for a change of scenery.  To the the nurse who put the lady's hearing aides in her ears as we started to sing carols. How the lady reached from under the blanket for the song sheet I was handing to her. How she moved her mouth to the words of Silent Night while she tried to dislodge her stuffed animal from the tangles of her sheet. How she attempted to smooth out the wrinkles of her bed sheet with her wrinkled hand after she had twice unsuccessfully propped up her Teddy Bear on her bed's edge. How she happily accepted a home-made ornament from a child but declined a second home-made ornament from the same child.

However:

To me, she was the welcoming audience, the gracious host, the musical accompaniment, the gifted soprano, the quiet director, and the entire choir.
To me, she was the reason why we went to the hospital to sing Christmas favourites.
To me, she was why my teen-age children wanted to continue our tradition of singing at 'Joe Brant'.
To me, she was why Jesus came to the earth.

What might have seemed like an insignificant patient on the fourth floor of Joseph Brant Hospital was probably a lot like what Jesus' birth was to his contemporaries. Unimportant. Ho-Hum. Same ole, same ole. I imagine that most people thought that Jesus' birth was just another birth in an old barn. Poor luck Mary and Joe - should have booked your hotel room sooner. His cries were just another baby's cries from hunger pangs or a diaper that needed changing. The shepherds' visit, a little odd given their social status, but nothing too unusual or out of the realm of possibility. I imagine most of the events surrounding Jesus' birth went unnoticed save for a few who actively watched and waited, and who were open to the angel's messages.

I'm wondering if complacency and a general disinterest in life's details comprise our collective Achilles heel. If so, we might be missing a message that's revealing an eternal truth.