Bubbles

Bubbles

I don't much care for the use of the term, "God sightings."  The way that I am most familiar with its use is at summer camp, mission trips, retreats, and Bible studies.  We sit around the campfire, sing Kumbaya and go around the circle announcing the day's God sightings.  It is as if we are on an Easter egg hunt and the one who finds the most sightings wins.  If we haven't witnessed at least a minor miracle, we get no points.  My contention is that God sightings are as numerous as the stars.  I looked into the mirror this morning and saw reflected a living, believing being.  I received a smile and a nod of greeting from a complete stranger.  I heard birds sing and saw new buds sprouting on trees.  I want to shout, "Even in Syria and Haiti, birds sing and trees blossom.  God is alive there too!  Do you want a God sighting?  Just open your eyes and ears."  I much prefer talking about bubbles and I'll tell you why…

Have you ever watched a child, playing with a bottle of soap liquid and a wand, making bubbles in the wind?  It is a sight sure to make even a curmudgeon smile.  Even the most serious of us will try to puff one of the bubbles a bit further along on its short-lived journey or will try to get one to land, un-burst, on the palm of a hand.  It just seems that most times, bubbles are fun; the sound of bubbles in a fish tank, the nose-tingly feeling of bubbles from a glass of celebratory champagne, the bubbles (and satisfying burp) from a cold Coke on a hot day.  You can see where I'm going with this.  Bubbles are, for the most part, happy things and that's why I choose to call this blog entry "Bubbles" rather than "God Sightings."

Almost a year ago, I closed out a blog that I began, on the Navajo Reservation in 2009, because I found that I was using it to vent anger and frustration more than anything else.  I have promised myself not to do that in this blog.  I'm getting a bit old to keep stepping on and off of that soapbox anyway.  I thought that I was done with blogging for good, but I've spotted several bubbles that have put me into a much better and sharable (is that really a word?) mind set.  The world keeps turning.  There is so much evil being done that I sometimes wonder why the world doesn't quit its rotations in plain old disgust.  Then I realize that there is still so much love and joy.

A friend and person of importance in my life, one of my pastors, Bev Coppley, delivered the sermon at church a few Sundays ago.  As she began, I thought she was preaching FOR me.  I found myself sitting, relaxed and complacent, shouting (well, silently shouting) a few "amen"s and a few "you tell 'em sister"s.  It sounded like we agreed that all bigots, all dog haters, all tailgate drivers, and all Carolina fans, were going straight to hell.  You tell 'em sister!  Oops!  All at once I realized that she was preaching TO me.  She said, "Ross, you old hypocrite, it's God's job to judge and yours to love.  Take off the black robe, lay down the gavel, roll up your sleeves, and get to work for God."  What she really said, in her gentle and yet compelling way, was, "In life, you cannot do it all nor can you do nothing at all.  It is our responsibility to just do the next right thing."  Looking at a reflection in a bubble makes the object appear to be upside down.  What Bev did for me that Sunday was to hold up a giant bubble.  She told me, this is the way God sees you and you should see yourself, not as an avenger, both unwanted and unneeded, but as a lover of His children.

Another thing that I'll share with you, that created a "whoa, fool, check your attitude" moment for me, was spending a couple hours visiting with an old high school classmate, Judy.  Two types of persons still call me "Rusty", old classmates and those who knew me growing up in my church.  She still calls me Rusty and I love to hear it.  She has suffered more physical pain and medical problems over the past couple of years than I could only hope to be able to cope with.  This lady (and I mean "lady" in every good sense of the word) whom I've know since grade school, blew a bubble in my direction that I am still trying to catch on the palm of my hand,  She said to me, "I'm still young (same age as me which makes me feel good) and I'm praying for God to show me how I can be useful."  She probably didn't see it, but she was already being useful.  At any rate, she sure pulled old woe-is-me Ross up short.  I think that I'll join her in her prayer.

I will continue to pray that I can be useful by doing the next right thing and I will continue to enjoy the blessings of bubbles.

Do You Remember These?

Do You Remember These?

Last year, my pastor did a series of sermons, under the general title "Remember": Remember to Forget, Remember to Forgive, Remember to Remember, etc.  As it happened, on the way home from the sermon on remembering to remember, I heard the Statler Brothers doing their country classic, "Do You Remember These?"

The Statlers were mostly recalling the memories of younger days: school days.  I was able to sing along with part of the song and perfectly able to remember most of the memories recalled in the song.  With the sermon being fresh and the song still playing in my mind, I began to do my own version of "remembering these" in my life.  I thought I would share a few of those thoughts in the hopes that they trigger fond memories of your own.  Mind you, I went to a small high school, so my memories may not parallel yours.

Do you remember your first real crush?  I think that I was a lot like Charlie Brown with his "little red haired girl".   I'm pretty sure I didn't have the courage to tell her how I felt.  If I said anything to her at all, it was probably mean.  After all, a boy doesn't want a girl to really believe that he likes her.  My first crush was Mary Francis and, after all these years, I still have a bit of a crush on the girl I knew in 4th grade.

How about your first passionate kiss?  Thank goodness for co-ed summer camp.  I met Libby at camp for middle school aged kids.  I have no clue what she saw in me, but I knew she was cute and seemed to like being with me.  From the 2nd day, we spent every moment that we could together.  She was a school grade ahead of me and, therefore, much more bold and experienced!  If it was up to me, we would have never gotten past the holding hands stage.  She proved to me that girls really are more fun than playing football.  By today's standards, I don't think I would have made first base on a single to the fence, but every time I think of her, my lips still tingle.  That summer, not only did I learn how to identify poisonous snakes and make lanyards, I learned that girl parts were different than boy parts and was ever thankful for the education.  I found out that girls are softer, smell better, and later found out that they also have wonderfully unique minds and thought processes.

How about the first time you showed up to join some athletic team or school activity?  All those other kids looked so much bigger or smarter or better.  At a small high school, of course everyone was able to participate.  If you could walk and breathe at the same time, you were able to wear a baseball uniform or be assigned a band instrument.  My high school didn't teach calculus and only taught two foreign languages, but I knew everyone and where they lived.  I cruise the old neighborhood sometimes even now doing what I like to call "chasing ghosts".  It still brings back great memories.

It wouldn't be fair to the work that my pastor did in reminding me of memories if I didn't mention the first time I knew that God was real and loved me.  I grew up in church, but I can readily mark the time I first knew the love of God.  I went with the Methodist Youth Fellowship of my church to a Billy Graham Crusade in Charlotte.  I went more just to be going than for any other reason.  Once he started preaching, I couldn't get Billy Graham out of my ears, eyes, and mind.  At the end of the sermon, there was an altar call.  Hundreds, maybe thousands, went forward to accept Christ.  We were all standing and I was holding on the the back of the chair in front of me as if my life depended on it and, in reality, it did.  I was determined that I wasn't going to let go of that chair and walk forward, especially in front of all those people and, even more, in front of my friends.  God wouldn't let me not come to Him.  Going forward didn't immediately change me to a better person, but it changed me for life.

Well, that's just a very few of my memories.  I hope that this inspires you to find a quiet place to listen to the music that you used to love, to visit the places that created those memories, and to thank those who helped make the memories and you more of what you are today.

Song of the Road

Like iron filings to a magnet, 
I am called by the song of the road.

I am not nearly as traveled as I wish.  As long as I can recall, however, I have wanted to be on my way somewhere new and different.  I can recall a North Carolina television news program, long before I cared about the news, that began each show with, "Covering the state from Manteo in the East to Murphy in the West."  I wasn't sure where either town was located nor had I ever visited them, but I was sure that a trip from one to the other would hold nothing but adventure.  In 1986, North Carolina author, Jerry Bledsoe, wrote a book about that trip, From Whalebone to Hot House: A Journey Along North Carolina's Longest Highway, U.S. 64.  Not only did he make my trip, he made a bit of money doing it.

How do I hear the song?  I hear it in the colors of the fall leaves, the blizzard like fall of the summer flowers of the cottonwood tree, and the peaks of Colorado mountains snowcapped all year round.  I hear it in the salty, swampy smell of costal roads and the comforting smell of wood burning fireplaces keeping homes warm in the winter.  I hear it in the crash of waves along the Carolina coast, which is much different from the waves hitting the coast of Maine or the coast of Oregon or the Gulf coast of Florida.  I hear the song of the road on the curves of the well worn Appalachian Mountains, the endlessly straight highways of Kansas and Nebraska, and the even tighter, steeper curves of the Rocky Mountains.  I hear the song as I sit on the steps of a country store and eat my lunch of rat cheese, Vienna Sausages, crackers, and an icy cold bottle of Coke that I just bought.  The road sings to me as I stare down from the highest peaks, look across the vastness of the high desert country, and gaze up at mountains reaching miles into the sky.  There is a song being sung by every crossroads settlement, village, town, and city, but the song of the road, to me, is that one made by the asphalt and concrete that connects them.  Large cities sing a noisy cacophony.  Ghost towns sing a funeral dirge.  The road sings of freedom, hope, and the joy of discovery that awaits just around the next bend.  I hear the song in long abandoned houses, vegetable stands, and store-front churches.  They sing a song of yesterday's dreams, today's memories, and tomorrow's hopes.  As long as they stand, the memory of those who lived, shopped, and worshipped in them will last.  As I listen to the song of the road, I echo with my own song of wonder: who have you carried to a wedding, the birth of a child, or on their last ride on this earth?  Who has died on your curves or made it home for Christmas?  Who left for a war or for college and never returned?  What wonders will you expose to me and what discoveries do you hold for me as I travel your surfaces?

I'm not given to traveling the interstate highways, if I can avoid it.  Like modern air travel, these highways are too crowded, too noisy, and too fast.  To me, the only song the interstate highway sings is the scream and whine of huge truck tires as they fly past.  Interstates do not allow you to see anything of the area of the countryside that you are traveling.  Interstate drivers seem to be less patient and almost never open to casual conversation, even at rest stops or motels.  On the blue highways (William Least Heat-Moon, Blue Highways), I've taken the time to stop and talk to farmers, who never seemed to mind, about what crops they were growing, why, and how.  I've talked to Hispanic field hands about their home countries; what life is like for them both back home and here in my country.  I've talked to old men on park benches (shades of Forrest Gump) about town histories and the special things that make them home; old memories shared because someone took the time to listen and care.  On my roads, people talk to each other and they listen to the song.  My advice: go slower, take longer, drive the country roads and listen for the songs that they will sing to you.

This I Believe

This I Believe

I believe in the innate goodness of all men.  One's religion, sex, sexual orientation, financial standing, the color of one's skin and hair and eyes, one's opportunities to choose right or wrong; many things may conspire to bring evil into being, but God does not create evil within us.

The thought of abortion, as birth control, leaves me cold.  However, I do not believe that I have been given the right to tell any woman what she may or may not do with her body.  I will not support laws that either overtly or covertly usurp that right of womanhood.  When anti-abortionists stand in line to adopt any unwanted child, then perhaps they will have some legitimacy in my sight.

I believe that the balance of the prison population, in the United States, speaks to obvious racism.  I will never believe that the percentage of incarcerated blacks and Latinos, as compared to the percentage of the white prison population, accurately depicts the number of lawbreakers in those populations as a whole.

I do not believe in capital punishment.  I confess that in war or fear or anger or to protect my own life or that of a loved one, I might well kill another human being.  At that point, like Moses, I will stand to be judged by God.  I do not believe that it is given to me to sit coldly in judgement and "vote" to take the life of another.

I do not believe that there is sin in sexual orientation.  I do not understand my own desire to be with a woman.  How then can I pretend to understand or condemn the desire of a man to be with a man or a woman to be with a woman.

I believe that I have the right to pray at any time and in any place.  Courts of law can neither force me to pray nor force me not to pray.  Prayer has not been taken from our schools or athletic events or public meetings.  I believe that silent prayer, from a godly heart, is heard as surely, perhaps even more so, than prayer shouted from a mountain top.

I believe that every man has a story to tell.  If we are unwilling to take the time to listen, if we close our ears and our hearts, we are doing a great disservice to both ourselves and to God's greatest creations.