Her raspberry stained face gave me a glimpse into heaven

From a distance I saw her canopied stroller parked near my neighbour's bountiful and mouth watering garden. The chair was turned so her face was hidden from me. But as I got nearer I could tell the stroller's occupant was straining her neck to see me atop my tractor. Finally, I was in her full view and when I waved she returned my wave with such enthusiasm that I felt compelled to stop, dismount and say 'hi'. I was surprised when I got closer - her face was covered in raspberry juice! Her two tiny teeth were fully exposed as she smiled and welcomed me with her eyes. She had been eating berries as she watched her 'grandmother' harvest the patch's bounty.  There was a peace - a certain contentment - that flowed from her eyes. And she was only a toddler.

 

This little girl is my temporary neighbour - she is in the foster care of a couple who have been given special appointment by God to nurture and love her while a permanent home can be found. Lydia (not her real name) arrived as an infant at the home of this couple, (whose children are now adults and living away from home), and is being raised as one of their own. While under their care affection is rendered and correction doled out in ways any parent would give their child if he or she were one of their own. Lydia isn't their first child whom they are fostering - she is one of many that have been blessed within the walls of her 'Oma and Opa's' (Dutch for Grandma and Grandpa) century old farm house.

 

Content to sit and watch while Oma picked berries; she patiently waited for a berry (or five) from Oma's outstretched hand. Eagerly, she shoved them into her mouth and savoured their sweet taste while waiting for just one more. Without a worry in the world, Lydia was enjoying a feast of berries under the watchful eyes and protective hands of one who loves her unconditionally. It was Lydia's messy, smiling face - her nose, lips, and chin smeared with raspberry juice - combined with the loving foster care provided by her substitutionary Oma that gave me a glimpse of what I imagine heaven to be like.

 

Here's why. Leviticus 23 records seven feasts, such as the Feast of Weeks, the Feast of First Fruits, and the Feast of Tabernacles. David writes, in Psalm 23:5, about God preparing a table or feast for us. Jesus uses the occasion of a feast at a wedding to perform his first miracle in John 2. In fact, the Bible has 170 references to feasts - 140 in the Old Testament and 30 in the New Testament! And, the Apostle Paul refers to our being adopted as sons and daughters to God through Jesus many times in his letters, such as in Ephesians 1:5. Two important and recurring themes - feasts and adoption by God through Christ - run unmistakably clear the Bible.

 

So, the next time you need to wipe your face after eating a rack of ribs, a juicy watermelon, a melting ice cream cone, or even when you have to wipe a child's face, remember the feast we'll enjoy for eternity in heaven. Together, you and I as adopted brothers and sisters fostered with God's infinite love, our brother Jesus, and God - our adoptive father - we'll eat an unending course of raspberries, pineapples, grapes, and nectarines! Just hold the cantaloupe (or musk melon). I can't imagine that it will taste better... even if it's on heaven's menu!

I regret to inform you, but I have a...

Man cold. Or that's what my lovely wife of almost 21 years calls it! It doesn't matter that I sneezed what felt like a thousand times in a row, or that the section between my upper lip and nose, in other words: the philtrum or the infranasal depression is a rosy pink, or that every time I swallow I'm convinced that a razor blade has taken up residence in my throat. Nope. I have a man cold and my Mom's phone number has been mysteriously added to our speed dial list!

 

So...it got me to think. If I have a man cold, what's a woman cold? And, more importantly, can a man have a woman cold? Can a woman get a man cold? Or, when a woman gets a cold, is it just a cold? I mean, with equality and such, I think I'm entitled to have a woman cold from time to time, too. Like I said, after almost 21 years of marriage, I'm feeling bold enough to take a shot at describing a woman cold! If you can say yes to at least 3 of these items, then in my estimation you have a woman cold (or just plain cold): you have a life threatening fever, your body's two primary exits have been conspiring together against you for at least 48 hours, it feels like your head is lodged in a bench vice, you're in desperate need of an iron lung, and all the tea in China won't make your throat feel better! Anything less than 3 of these items - I'm sorry to say - you have a man cold - as defined by a woman.

 

I don't know where in history colds became defined by gender. Maybe, 'man cold' was coined when Alexander the Great delayed his trek into Syria in 333 BC due to illness...as in "Poor Alex. He's got a man cold. Syria can wait." Or, maybe it was because Napoleon was unwell on the day of the Battle of Waterloo and that's why he lost. (Some historians even claim possible hemorrhoids!) Even more likely, it was Winston Churchill's pneumonia in 1943 while leading and inspiring the Allied invasion that the term man cold was coined. But... then I imagine it was used with a very complimentary tone - no sarcasm inferred! But, society, in its twisted fashion, has changed the meaning of the word. Just like the words - sick, bad, and gay have changed meanings over time. I think if you had a man cold pre-1945, you could hang with the likes of Alex the Great, the Little General, and The British Bulldog. Now, if your wife explains your absence using the descriptor man cold, she gets sympathetic nods from her female compatriots and shameful, blank stares from those of the male persuasion.

 

I don't know about you - and by 'you' I mean my male readership - but, if ever my cold is described as a man cold by my wife, I'll envision myself among the ranks of the greatest leaders of all time. There I'll be: Alex, Napoleon on my right, and Winston on my left. Ahh...misery loves company.

 

Psst...pass the Kleenex...ACHCHOO...I'm going to bed. Oh, and where's the Vics Vapour Rub?

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

Oh, the great plans I had for my new pet fish

"Call me Ishmael." For I was optimistic and full of hope!

It was 1980 something. And, as any teenage boy worth his salt I drove my Mom crazy by 'hanging around'. It wasn't so much as 'hanging around', but I suffered from the common affliction what was then known as being #bored (without the #). It wasn't so much as being bored, but it was problem of finding something that would hold my attention for longer than 2.5 seconds. Today, psychologists might label me as being mildly ADD with a slant towards 'inattentiveness'. Back then, however, my Mom would just say I was being 'vervelend', which is the Dutch word to describe someone who is causing an irritation or an annoyance! I didn't exactly know what the word meant then, but I knew that when she used it I wasn't being very lovable.

So, with a grand - and rare - idea conjured up, I jumped on my metallic red, Canadian Tire 'Super-Cycle' and rode the 3km trek to Waterdown's one and only pet store to buy a gold fish and a bowl. (To this day I'm not exactly sure why I thought this would hold my attention, but I was going with it and I wasn't going to argue with myself!) After selecting the fish with the perfect shade of orange, and locating a glass bowl that looked like...well...'just like home' from a fish's perspective, I made the precarious trip to our Robson Road address. With a fish - in a bag of water - in one hand, and my new fish's home in the other, I was thankful that long before I learned to steer my bike and its curved handle bars with my knees. Step 1 was complete.

Step 2: Transferring the fish and its water from the bag to the bowl went exceedingly well. I executed flawlessly - neither did I spill a drop nor cause a near death experience to my unnamed fish. In good fish fashion I like to think he raised his gill as if to pump a fist and say 'thanks' for rescuing him from being the next dinner item for the neighbouring Tetra fish.

The moment I had been waiting for was soon to arrive. I would place Nemo, (not his real name) and his new glassy confines on my dresser in my bedroom, which was located on the second floor of my home. The only barriers in my way to a state of bliss were a flight of stairs...a tight corner to navigate...a slight elevation of the bowl to the top of the dresser...and I was all set to be entertained for the rest of my life. Or, so I thought. I cautiously cruised up the 13 stairs that separated my known worlds of the awake and of the asleep. With only 5 feet to go and my dresser in sight I cut the corner too tight at the top of the stairs; my shoulder brushed up against the wall...and...crash. My bowl and its proud occupant slammed onto the floor triggering a small tsunami as shards of glass flew this way and that. And, there on cold floor, with a glass spear impaling him through his tiny abdomen, Nemo looked at me with mournful eyes as if to say 'Et tu Brute?" Then his gills no longer gilled and his fins finned no more.

With all my great planning I didn't account for the phenomenon known as condensation. Somewhere between transferring Nemo from the bag to the bowl and placing Nemo's home on its final resting place, a layer of condensation formed on the exterior of the glass. As I walked carefully through my home, my hands were releasing their tight grip and I could feel the bowl being heavily influenced by gravity. My enemy was time...and I ran out. Nemo paid the price. I've never owned a fish since that fateful day!

All this gets me to the abbreviation: D.V., which we would see printed in our church's bulletin every now and again. No, it didn't refer to my Dad's or my brother's initials as we chuckled about whenever we saw it printed. It was the abbreviated form of "Deo Volente" translated as 'God willing' based on the teaching in James 4:13-15. In the early 1900's and later in the century, D.V. would often follow a publication of wedding banns or other official announcements and when you saw it you would know that it meant: "We plan these things, and if it's God's will, then they'll take place."

So, I have two questions - A: was it God's will that Nemo didn't swim to see another day, and B: can James' statement be directed at teenaged boys transporting fish? A: I really don't know. B. I highly doubt it! But, I do know, that if we think we can do anything on our own power and steam without acknowledging Him as the author and finisher of all things, then all our plans are for nothing - broken, shattered, and impaled forever to a world of emptiness and loneliness. As Proverbs 16:1 says, "We make our plans, but God has the last word."

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

Words of hope and promise for parents dealing with guilt

You left this morning without -
making your bed,
putting your clothes away,
picking up your toys.

You left this morning without -
locking the door,
putting gas in the car,
cutting the grass.

You left this morning without -
feeding the cat,
walking the dog,
putting the garbage out.

You left this morning without -
checking the mail,
watering the plants,
picking up the newspaper.

For all these things you didn't do, I shook my head and cursed.

I didn't love you perfectly.
When you were small -
I didn't always walk slow enough, bend down far enough, or give you my full attention.

I didn't love you perfectly.
When you were a child -
I didn't always wipe away your tears when you were sad, hug you enough when you felt deserted, or sit with you when you were lonely.

I didn't love you perfectly.
When you were a teenager -
I didn't always enjoy taking you to the movies, watching you play ball in the rain, or picking you up from the mall.

I didn't love you perfectly. And, now that you're all grown up...

You left this morning without -
saying "Good-bye".

For this one last thing you didn't do, I hung my head and cried.

And, in that moment of despair, I heard someone whisper my name. You know the one, don't you? Jesus? He reminded me that though my love for you may have been imperfect, his love is perfect. Welcome him into your life, and he'll never ask you to say, "Good bye". He'll stop when you say, "Wait for me". He'll bend down when you say, 'I have something to tell you". He'll be your friend when you say, "I'm lonely". He'll cry when you cry, and laugh when you laugh. He will be a father, a friend, a brother like you've never had! For all my broken promises and more, you can hang your hat on this because he's my friend, too. He won't let you down.

 "Because I (Jesus) lives, you also will live." John 14:19

 

 

A God-moment never to be forgotten

Picture courtesy of Heather DH (Burlington CRC)

This one's tough. Not because I don't know what to say...I don't know how to say it and give it the justice it deserves. (I'm also hesitant to label what I'm about to write as a 'God moment', because I think it limits God! God's complete omnipresence and omniscience is foundational to my Christian belief. However, I think most readers will understand what is meant by a God moment...so I'm sticking with it!)

What I witnessed at this past Wednesday's worship service was proof positive that the postmodern 'God is Dead Movement' is dead wrong. He is alive and he was present among the 47 youth who came to Burlington this past week on a Youth Unlimited SERVE mission trip. Through their personal testimonies, these teens, hailing from parts of the US Midwest and Ontario, confirmed God's faithfulness to his promise of sending his Holy Spirit to believers and to their children and to all who are far off (Acts 2:39). Picture many of the 47 teens singing loudly, clapping, and dancing to 'Days of Elijah'; doing a jig to the bridge 'There's no God like Jehovah'; followed by a soulful and equally moving 'When Peace like a River/It is Well with my Soul. The first written in 1994 and the second in 1876! Penned more than a century apart, these songs were used to praise and worship God by teens in 2015 - most of whom were born around Y2K!

I'm one of those guys who experienced my teenage years in the 1980's. If you happened to be a member of a Reformed, or another conservative, Protestant church at that time, then it was fairly typical to look at those who raised their hands in worship, or say 'AMEN' aloud, with a crooked brow and question their brand of Christianity. I don't know when and why it happened, but somehow raising arms and clapping hands in worship to God became unacceptable. Kneeling was also frowned upon...perhaps it smacked of too much 'Catholicity'. I'm afraid that in the zeal of our Protestant forefathers and mothers, they threw 'the baby out with the bathwater.' Makes me think what are we going to do in Heaven?

Music was sacrosanct - much like it is today. Apparently, the organ and the occasional trumpet and French horn were the only instruments allowed in the Holy of Holies. I think that's what the psalmist really meant when he said "Praise him with the tambourine and dancing; praise him with strings (guitars?) and flutes"! (Psalm 150:4) As a teen, the only acceptable Christian songs, that were not in a Christian hymnal, were Kum Bayah, We are One in the Spirit, and Michael Row Your Boat Ashore. We were cautioned to handle musicians such as Amy Grant and Michael W. Smith with care and a modicum of suspicion, while Christian metal bands like Stryper were scorned and condemned for being to AC/DC 'ish.

Today, it's usually the older songs that I learned as a child, or heard my parents sing, that speak in louder volumes and are more spiritually meaningful to me than the newer music - with a few exceptions. And, the conservative styles of worship that are loved by older and younger generations alike have both equally beautiful and God honouring elements. I can't emphasize the importance of quiet, reflective, and reverend worship enough. But, participating with these teens as they sang both old and new, praise and worship songs with equal enthusiasm and passion for our Lord brought me to silence. I couldn't sing. So, lifting my hands in praise and adoration, I could only pray and thank God for granting me the joy to watch and experience almost 50 youth singing and praising his name.

If only there was a kneeling bench!