Glimmers
On the occasion of Christmas, 2010
I searched for her name several times in my foggy memory over the past several days. She was a part of my clinical pastoral education residency group at the University of Tennessee Medical Center in 1993-1994. I was remembering her in the context of Christmas’ soon arrival as I thought about something she had said about the same time of year in 1993. It fell to her as the chaplain on-call for the day to deliver a brief devotional message in the hospital chapel on the Friday before the Christmas break.
I could have looked it up, I suppose. I still have all the evaluations for the residency in my files and the group members are included, but I stubbornly resisted. Today, as I donned my sweats for my morning walk, her name suddenly popped into my head. Shelly. Shelly was an Episcopal priest in her forties, with nearly black hair and piercing blue eyes. She typically wore a white clerical blouse with a clerical collar and a skirt. Most often she wore a red blazer with it.
Shelly had suffered a stroke years earlier and with a great deal of determination and effort, she had recovered most of what she had lost. What remained was a bit of aphasia. She spoke slowly and deliberately and it took a bit of work to put her thoughts into words. “Wait, wait,” she would say when someone gave her a phone number to call. She would ask the caller to slow down and she would write it down and read it back to them to make sure she had recorded it accurately.
In her Christmas message, she re-told the ancient account of Mary and Joseph and the birth of Jesus. She talked of how God loved us and reached down to us, came to us in the form of an infant. It was all lovely and wondrous, she said, but it also required something of no small cost to Mary and Joseph. Babies have to be fed. This one was no exception. He would not survive, would not grow, would not speak and would not have amazed the hearers in Temple at age twelve had he not been nurtured and fed. He would not have performed any miracles or delivered the Sermon on the Mount. He would not have died on a cross or been raised from the dead, as Christians believe, had they not fed the baby.
Song after song this Christmas season reference this special, “most wonderful time of the year,” and it truly is wonderful. People smile easily, ask about other’s families and if they will get to see them over the holidays. And even though it is sometimes characterized by economic over-indulgence, it is just as often characterized by dropping money in red kettles, adopting an angel on a tree, feeding the hungry and Toys for Tots. Why can’t this Christmas kind of living and giving last all year? Shelly delivered the zinger with the answer right at the end of her Christmas message. “You’ve got to feed that baby.”
Merry Christmas
Jerald
Monday, December 20, 2010
Saturday, December 18, 2010
I couldn’t help but smile. On the way to school this morning, Christian, my grandson, was singing. “Deck the halls with folly jolly, fa la la la la, la la la la.” This is the stuff of Christmas. Christmas carols, children’s eyes filled with wonder, lights on palm trees (we live in Florida), Charlie Brown yard scenes, snowmen and Santa Claus.
I have always loved Christmas carols. When they were small, my three girls would wear us out singing them. One year we made a rule that they could not sing them until after Thanksgiving. Looking back, I think that was a mistake. Sure, we got tired of hearing them then, but I think we squashed some of the joy bubbling up from our children’s hearts. We should have let them sing.
Like songs sometimes do, another song took me back to my childhood yesterday. We had a luncheon and party with co-workers, a part of which was a “Yankee swap.” When my turn came and I had the choice of an unopened gift, or stealing one from someone who had gone before, I went for the steal. I took “Christmas with the Rat Pack” from Fran Garrett who had hidden the cd inside his shirt, hoping no one would remember it. The Rat Pack, of course, refers to Frank Sinatra, Dean Martin and Sammy Davis, Jr. It was “Silver Bells” sung by Dean Martin that took me back in time. It was one of my mother’s favorites. Suddenly I’m a 7 year-old kid admiring our spindly Christmas tree with the big glass bulbs with a gold and purple glass spire on the top.
At the time, my mother worked at Winn Dixie in Starke, Florida and my dad worked at the Florida State Penitentiary at Raiford. We lived on the grounds of the State Prison in a three-bedroom concrete block house with terrazzo floors. I loved it there. On Christmas Eve, there was a party at the Community Center, a big log building with wooden floors. There was food and music and afterward we went home and opened our presents. Silver Bells, spindly Christmas trees, bicycles and roller skates. The stuff of Christmas past.
I’ll have some more to say about Christmas next week. But for now, let your mind wander back to your childhood Christmas days. Sure, all of the memories may not be heartwarming. Hopefully some will be. And if for whatever reason you find yourself having trouble getting into the Christmas spirit, listen to the children singing “Deck the halls with folly jolly.” That should do it.
Merry Christmas,
Jerald
I have always loved Christmas carols. When they were small, my three girls would wear us out singing them. One year we made a rule that they could not sing them until after Thanksgiving. Looking back, I think that was a mistake. Sure, we got tired of hearing them then, but I think we squashed some of the joy bubbling up from our children’s hearts. We should have let them sing.
Like songs sometimes do, another song took me back to my childhood yesterday. We had a luncheon and party with co-workers, a part of which was a “Yankee swap.” When my turn came and I had the choice of an unopened gift, or stealing one from someone who had gone before, I went for the steal. I took “Christmas with the Rat Pack” from Fran Garrett who had hidden the cd inside his shirt, hoping no one would remember it. The Rat Pack, of course, refers to Frank Sinatra, Dean Martin and Sammy Davis, Jr. It was “Silver Bells” sung by Dean Martin that took me back in time. It was one of my mother’s favorites. Suddenly I’m a 7 year-old kid admiring our spindly Christmas tree with the big glass bulbs with a gold and purple glass spire on the top.
At the time, my mother worked at Winn Dixie in Starke, Florida and my dad worked at the Florida State Penitentiary at Raiford. We lived on the grounds of the State Prison in a three-bedroom concrete block house with terrazzo floors. I loved it there. On Christmas Eve, there was a party at the Community Center, a big log building with wooden floors. There was food and music and afterward we went home and opened our presents. Silver Bells, spindly Christmas trees, bicycles and roller skates. The stuff of Christmas past.
I’ll have some more to say about Christmas next week. But for now, let your mind wander back to your childhood Christmas days. Sure, all of the memories may not be heartwarming. Hopefully some will be. And if for whatever reason you find yourself having trouble getting into the Christmas spirit, listen to the children singing “Deck the halls with folly jolly.” That should do it.
Merry Christmas,
Jerald
Wednesday, November 24, 2010
Thanksgiving 2010
Glimmers-Thanksgiving 2010
I will give thanks to you, LORD, with all my heart; I will tell of all your wonderful deeds. Ps. 9:1
“Look Papa,” he said, “Its an Indian and a Pilgrim.” His little paper cut-out figures had been neatly colored by his 5 year old hands. “Nice work. Its getting close to Thanksgiving,” I said. “Thanksgiving?” he replied. I went on to explain that at the first Thanksgiving the Pilgrims and the Indians got together to celebrate a bountiful harvest. It turns out there is much more to the story. Isn’t that always the case?
In 1620, to escape religious persecution, the Pilgrims left England for America. They arrived in December of 1620, stayed mostly on the Mayflower through that winter, struggling with scurvy and other illnesses. By the time spring rolled around, nearly half of them had died. Their first attempts at farming didn’t turn out so well and an Indian named Squanto, a former slave in England, offered to teach them what to plant and how to grow it in America. 1622 fell far short of expectations as well because the way the community was organized didn’t produced the desired result. Governor Bradford wisely chose to do things differently and productivity soared. The following autumn of 1623 brought a bountiful harvest. The Pilgrims invited Squanto and Massasoit, the chief of the Wampanoags (really, I’m not making this up) to bring their immediate families to join them for a celebration of thanksgiving. Little did they know that “immediate family” in Wampanoag means anyone closer than third cousin, twice removed.
So a host of people came, dragging five freshly killed deer with them. They all dined on venison, squash, various fowl (turkey was not in any records) lobster, beans and other things. No pumpkin pies. Along with the harvest bounty, what they had in abundance were thankful hearts. They were alive. The village was flourishing. They had never heard of political correctness, so they gave thanks to God for “blessing the harvest.” Imagine.
Now I won’t bore you with all the details, and there are many more and they are not really boring at all, but I need to get on to my primary point. We owe Thanksgiving Day as a national holiday not to the Pilgrims or Squanto or George Washington or even Abraham Lincoln whose proclamation still sends chills up my spine. We owe the day to a woman named Sarah Josepha Hale.
Sarah Josepha Hale was a remarkable woman of significant literary skill. In a time when the education of women was not deemed important, her family made sure she was. Though she could not go to college, her brother went to Dartmouth and he shared what he learned with her. After she married Mr. Hale and had five children, Mr. Hale died leaving her to care for their five young children alone. They had been married for only eleven years.
Her gift for writing had not gone unnoticed and she published poems and novels and eventually became the editress, the title she preferred to editor, of Godey’s Lady’s Book, the most influential women’s publication of its day.
It was her lobbying effort over a span of forty years that finally convinced Abraham Lincoln to make Thanksgiving a national holiday, unifying various state celebrations across the land. As I read about her and her role in our national Thanksgiving celebration, I wondered about what drove her to such dedication to thankfulness. My guess is that her hardships were as much responsible as her blessings. Hardships have a way of seasoning our blessings, making them all the sweeter. That’s the way is seems to work with most people.
So you can thank Sarah Josepha Hale tomorrow as you give thanks for so many other things. And should you forget about her tomorrow, try singing “Mary Had a Little Lamb.” She’s responsible for that too.
Happy Thanksgiving!
Jerald
I will give thanks to you, LORD, with all my heart; I will tell of all your wonderful deeds. Ps. 9:1
“Look Papa,” he said, “Its an Indian and a Pilgrim.” His little paper cut-out figures had been neatly colored by his 5 year old hands. “Nice work. Its getting close to Thanksgiving,” I said. “Thanksgiving?” he replied. I went on to explain that at the first Thanksgiving the Pilgrims and the Indians got together to celebrate a bountiful harvest. It turns out there is much more to the story. Isn’t that always the case?
In 1620, to escape religious persecution, the Pilgrims left England for America. They arrived in December of 1620, stayed mostly on the Mayflower through that winter, struggling with scurvy and other illnesses. By the time spring rolled around, nearly half of them had died. Their first attempts at farming didn’t turn out so well and an Indian named Squanto, a former slave in England, offered to teach them what to plant and how to grow it in America. 1622 fell far short of expectations as well because the way the community was organized didn’t produced the desired result. Governor Bradford wisely chose to do things differently and productivity soared. The following autumn of 1623 brought a bountiful harvest. The Pilgrims invited Squanto and Massasoit, the chief of the Wampanoags (really, I’m not making this up) to bring their immediate families to join them for a celebration of thanksgiving. Little did they know that “immediate family” in Wampanoag means anyone closer than third cousin, twice removed.
So a host of people came, dragging five freshly killed deer with them. They all dined on venison, squash, various fowl (turkey was not in any records) lobster, beans and other things. No pumpkin pies. Along with the harvest bounty, what they had in abundance were thankful hearts. They were alive. The village was flourishing. They had never heard of political correctness, so they gave thanks to God for “blessing the harvest.” Imagine.
Now I won’t bore you with all the details, and there are many more and they are not really boring at all, but I need to get on to my primary point. We owe Thanksgiving Day as a national holiday not to the Pilgrims or Squanto or George Washington or even Abraham Lincoln whose proclamation still sends chills up my spine. We owe the day to a woman named Sarah Josepha Hale.
Sarah Josepha Hale was a remarkable woman of significant literary skill. In a time when the education of women was not deemed important, her family made sure she was. Though she could not go to college, her brother went to Dartmouth and he shared what he learned with her. After she married Mr. Hale and had five children, Mr. Hale died leaving her to care for their five young children alone. They had been married for only eleven years.
Her gift for writing had not gone unnoticed and she published poems and novels and eventually became the editress, the title she preferred to editor, of Godey’s Lady’s Book, the most influential women’s publication of its day.
It was her lobbying effort over a span of forty years that finally convinced Abraham Lincoln to make Thanksgiving a national holiday, unifying various state celebrations across the land. As I read about her and her role in our national Thanksgiving celebration, I wondered about what drove her to such dedication to thankfulness. My guess is that her hardships were as much responsible as her blessings. Hardships have a way of seasoning our blessings, making them all the sweeter. That’s the way is seems to work with most people.
So you can thank Sarah Josepha Hale tomorrow as you give thanks for so many other things. And should you forget about her tomorrow, try singing “Mary Had a Little Lamb.” She’s responsible for that too.
Happy Thanksgiving!
Jerald
Monday, November 15, 2010
On Being 55
November 15, 2010
Some random thoughts on the beginning of my 56th year. I turned 55 on October 19th.
You can’t have a mid-life crisis at 55 unless you expect to live till you’re 110.
I’m getting used to “You look really good- for your age.”
I’m taking every senior citizen discount I can get!
I’m glad I still have all my own teeth.
Thank God for hair! Some people look really good bald. I’m not one of them.
If you are as young as you feel, I’m actually doing pretty well.
At my age, the one with the fewest prescription meds wins!
I can still buy my dream car- BMW- but not if I want to retire before 75. Keeping the old Ford.
Aging gracefully is the best revenge.
Grandchildren! ‘Nuff said.
Blessings to you all,
Jerald
Some random thoughts on the beginning of my 56th year. I turned 55 on October 19th.
You can’t have a mid-life crisis at 55 unless you expect to live till you’re 110.
I’m getting used to “You look really good- for your age.”
I’m taking every senior citizen discount I can get!
I’m glad I still have all my own teeth.
Thank God for hair! Some people look really good bald. I’m not one of them.
If you are as young as you feel, I’m actually doing pretty well.
At my age, the one with the fewest prescription meds wins!
I can still buy my dream car- BMW- but not if I want to retire before 75. Keeping the old Ford.
Aging gracefully is the best revenge.
Grandchildren! ‘Nuff said.
Blessings to you all,
Jerald
Friday, October 15, 2010
Blockin' and tacklin'
Glimmers
October 15, 2010
“Trust in the LORD and do good.” (Psalm 37:3a)
I became a Tennessee Volunteer fan in earnest when I was doing my clinical pastoral education residency at the University of Tennessee Medical Center in Knoxville in 1993-1994. Every Friday the whole town, including the hospital, was festooned in orange and white in anticipation of the Saturday football game. It is the kind of thing that makes college towns everywhere so much fun.
Tennessee football has fallen on hard times of late. Last week we were beaten badly by a struggling Georgia Bulldog team that may at last have found its identity. The future looks even more foreboding and bleak. Next week we play Alabama. Alabama lost for the first time in 17 games last week. Facing them next has all the appeal of hand-feeding filet mignon to a wounded tiger. My apologies to Auburn and LSU fans everywhere, but it is the best analogy I could come up with.
But you gotta love Tennessee coach Derek Dooley. Tennessee has a bye week this week, meaning there is no game this Saturday. He said the Vols are not good enough to ignore basic fundamentals, so this week there will be no game planning for Alabama, they’ll focus on the basics- “blockin’ and tacklin’.” If you can’t execute the fundamentals, no game plan will ever be good enough. He is smart enough to know that long-term success can’t be achieved by focusing on short-term game conditions.
I was taken back to basic camp this week, schooled again in the fundamentals from an unexpected coach. We were talking about all the things swirling about- the economy, the Space Center layoffs, healthcare reform- and I could just feel my anxiety building as we talked. She feels it directly too, her husband works at the Space Center, but she said it has reminded her of some basic, fundamental things. She is God’s child. She isn’t in control of much of what happens. She can only do her job and care for people to the best of her ability. “The rest,” she says, “I’ll have to trust God with that.” To underscore the point, she said, “Really, it is the only way to deal with it.” The fundamentals. Blockin’ and tacklin.’ Even if Alabama is not the next team you face, if you can’t get the fundamentals right, you don’t have a prayer.
Blessings to you all,
Jerald
October 15, 2010
“Trust in the LORD and do good.” (Psalm 37:3a)
I became a Tennessee Volunteer fan in earnest when I was doing my clinical pastoral education residency at the University of Tennessee Medical Center in Knoxville in 1993-1994. Every Friday the whole town, including the hospital, was festooned in orange and white in anticipation of the Saturday football game. It is the kind of thing that makes college towns everywhere so much fun.
Tennessee football has fallen on hard times of late. Last week we were beaten badly by a struggling Georgia Bulldog team that may at last have found its identity. The future looks even more foreboding and bleak. Next week we play Alabama. Alabama lost for the first time in 17 games last week. Facing them next has all the appeal of hand-feeding filet mignon to a wounded tiger. My apologies to Auburn and LSU fans everywhere, but it is the best analogy I could come up with.
But you gotta love Tennessee coach Derek Dooley. Tennessee has a bye week this week, meaning there is no game this Saturday. He said the Vols are not good enough to ignore basic fundamentals, so this week there will be no game planning for Alabama, they’ll focus on the basics- “blockin’ and tacklin’.” If you can’t execute the fundamentals, no game plan will ever be good enough. He is smart enough to know that long-term success can’t be achieved by focusing on short-term game conditions.
I was taken back to basic camp this week, schooled again in the fundamentals from an unexpected coach. We were talking about all the things swirling about- the economy, the Space Center layoffs, healthcare reform- and I could just feel my anxiety building as we talked. She feels it directly too, her husband works at the Space Center, but she said it has reminded her of some basic, fundamental things. She is God’s child. She isn’t in control of much of what happens. She can only do her job and care for people to the best of her ability. “The rest,” she says, “I’ll have to trust God with that.” To underscore the point, she said, “Really, it is the only way to deal with it.” The fundamentals. Blockin’ and tacklin.’ Even if Alabama is not the next team you face, if you can’t get the fundamentals right, you don’t have a prayer.
Blessings to you all,
Jerald
Sunday, October 3, 2010
Beware of Backdrafts
Glimmers
October 1, 2010
James was a wise man. I suspect he gained wisdom the usual way, from experience. No doubt somewhere, someone he trusted gossiped behind his back, defamed his character and sent his relationship up in flames.
We control a big horse with a small bit, and a big ship with a small rudder, so we should not be surprised that a small thing like our tongue can cause big problems. Listen to how James describes it.
a small thing that makes grand speeches
a flame of fire
a whole world of wickedness
set on fire by hell itself (James 3: 3-6)
The words that roll off our tongue in thoughtless moments can cause a great deal of destruction, like an out of control fire. Chuck Swindoll, a noted pastor and author, offers some good advice about controlling our tongue and the words that so casually roll off of it sometimes. He says our words need to go through four gates before they are uttered.
Gate 1 : Is it confidential? (If so, never mention it.)
Gate 2 : Is it true? (This may take some investigation.)
Gate 3 : Is it necessary? (So many words are useless.)
Gate 4 : Is it kind? (Does it serve a wholesome purpose?)
(Swindoll, Living Beyond The Daily Grind, p. 50)
This is America, of course, and you have freedom of speech guaranteed by the Constitution. But even that has limitations, the most famous being yelling “Fire!” in a crowded theater. In short, you are free to say almost anything you wish at anytime. Say… have you ever seen the movie “Backdraft?”
Blessings to you all,
Jerald
October 1, 2010
James was a wise man. I suspect he gained wisdom the usual way, from experience. No doubt somewhere, someone he trusted gossiped behind his back, defamed his character and sent his relationship up in flames.
We control a big horse with a small bit, and a big ship with a small rudder, so we should not be surprised that a small thing like our tongue can cause big problems. Listen to how James describes it.
a small thing that makes grand speeches
a flame of fire
a whole world of wickedness
set on fire by hell itself (James 3: 3-6)
The words that roll off our tongue in thoughtless moments can cause a great deal of destruction, like an out of control fire. Chuck Swindoll, a noted pastor and author, offers some good advice about controlling our tongue and the words that so casually roll off of it sometimes. He says our words need to go through four gates before they are uttered.
Gate 1 : Is it confidential? (If so, never mention it.)
Gate 2 : Is it true? (This may take some investigation.)
Gate 3 : Is it necessary? (So many words are useless.)
Gate 4 : Is it kind? (Does it serve a wholesome purpose?)
(Swindoll, Living Beyond The Daily Grind, p. 50)
This is America, of course, and you have freedom of speech guaranteed by the Constitution. But even that has limitations, the most famous being yelling “Fire!” in a crowded theater. In short, you are free to say almost anything you wish at anytime. Say… have you ever seen the movie “Backdraft?”
Blessings to you all,
Jerald
Sunday, September 5, 2010
3 Seconds
3 seconds. That’s all it took to change Chris Hubbard’s life. 3 seconds is how much time he says elapsed between noticing the car crossing the median and being violently thrown from his motorcycle. 3 seconds.
Seated in a wheelchair, his right arm bandaged and bound in a sling, Chris Hubbard used his left arm and left leg to position himself in the front of the room. He had come to speak to us about United Way and the difference it has made in his life. He took out a few pieces of lined notebook paper and began to read. “I’m Chris Hubbard.” “ I used to live in Brevard County. I had moved to Alabama a few years ago, but I still had some business interests here.” “Last year, I had come to take care of some business concerns and having finished with those, I was riding my bike on 528. I remember seeing the car coming toward me. The next thing I remember is waking up in Holmes Regional Medical Center.” He went on to tell how when he was able to comprehend what had happened, he discovered his right leg was no longer there. His right arm was badly crushed and the medical team was not certain it could be saved. Though his right arm is not back to full functioning, he credits the excellent care he received for having a right arm at all.
“Every day I was in that hospital, I dreamed of the day I would be able to get out,” he said. “As soon as I could get out, I planned to kill myself.” His sense of loss was overwhelming. He had lost his leg, his family, his businesses, his home and his sense of who he was as a person. All as a result of those 3 seconds.
As his condition improved, the case management team helped him connect with Joe Robinson and the staff at North Brevard Charities. “They didn’t just give me a place to live.” “They saved my life.” North Brevard Charities, a local United Way affiliated agency, is helping Chris rebuild his life. A nurse by profession, he is back in school at age 47, training for a new career. With their help and support, he is looking forward to the day he again has his own home. “After my accident, I wanted to die.” “Now, I ‘m really glad I didn’t.”
3 seconds. That’s all it took to change Chris Hubbard’s life. 120 seconds is all it took to fill out my United Way pledge card.
Blessings to you all,
Jerald
Seated in a wheelchair, his right arm bandaged and bound in a sling, Chris Hubbard used his left arm and left leg to position himself in the front of the room. He had come to speak to us about United Way and the difference it has made in his life. He took out a few pieces of lined notebook paper and began to read. “I’m Chris Hubbard.” “ I used to live in Brevard County. I had moved to Alabama a few years ago, but I still had some business interests here.” “Last year, I had come to take care of some business concerns and having finished with those, I was riding my bike on 528. I remember seeing the car coming toward me. The next thing I remember is waking up in Holmes Regional Medical Center.” He went on to tell how when he was able to comprehend what had happened, he discovered his right leg was no longer there. His right arm was badly crushed and the medical team was not certain it could be saved. Though his right arm is not back to full functioning, he credits the excellent care he received for having a right arm at all.
“Every day I was in that hospital, I dreamed of the day I would be able to get out,” he said. “As soon as I could get out, I planned to kill myself.” His sense of loss was overwhelming. He had lost his leg, his family, his businesses, his home and his sense of who he was as a person. All as a result of those 3 seconds.
As his condition improved, the case management team helped him connect with Joe Robinson and the staff at North Brevard Charities. “They didn’t just give me a place to live.” “They saved my life.” North Brevard Charities, a local United Way affiliated agency, is helping Chris rebuild his life. A nurse by profession, he is back in school at age 47, training for a new career. With their help and support, he is looking forward to the day he again has his own home. “After my accident, I wanted to die.” “Now, I ‘m really glad I didn’t.”
3 seconds. That’s all it took to change Chris Hubbard’s life. 120 seconds is all it took to fill out my United Way pledge card.
Blessings to you all,
Jerald
Wednesday, August 18, 2010
Love is a Verb
“All hardback books $5, all paperback books, $3.” That’s what the sign said at the bookstore at the Orange County Convention Center the week of my denominational chaplains commission meeting and general assembly. In no time flat, I had picked out six books for a total of $27.00. A bargain even I couldn’t resist.
Two of the books are about relationships, one is about the sacraments, and another focuses on the Lord’s Prayer. Currently, I’m reading a book by Tim Keel titled “Intuitive Leadership: Embracing a Paradigm of Narrative, Metaphor & Chaos.” I won’t bore you with trying to re-state all that the book talks about, but the major point, very well told in the book, is that the world has changed and continues to change is fundamental ways. We all know it. We all feel it, though we can’t often name it or understand it or the meaning of it. We see it in the blur of technological change and how quickly the latest gadget is obsolete. We see it in how differently Baby Boomers, Gen Xers and Gen Nexters relate to authority and work. How, asks Keel, is the church to live in and be relevant to a world so dramatically different than that of a generation ago?
The world of healthcare has changed just as rapidly. Healthcare workers have changed. Patients have changed. Treatment and payment models have changed. It turns out that the religious experts and the healthcare experts face similar challenges. How can healthcare keep up with a changing landscape where our success depends equally upon quality measures and patient satisfaction scores? Keel’s message to the church is just as relevant to the hospital, I think. The church can’t just proclaim a message and expect to be heard and believed. The message must be lived in order to be heard.
Hospitals too must live out their mission. It isn’t enough anymore to be the experts in fixing broken bones, unclogging arteries or curing infections. They must live quality and they must also live care and compassion. In short, the answer for both, it seems to me is the sixth book I purchased. That book is by Gary Chapman. It is a collection of stories about how one person touched the life of another. The title is simple. The message is profound. “Love is a Verb.”
Blessings to you all,
Jerald
Two of the books are about relationships, one is about the sacraments, and another focuses on the Lord’s Prayer. Currently, I’m reading a book by Tim Keel titled “Intuitive Leadership: Embracing a Paradigm of Narrative, Metaphor & Chaos.” I won’t bore you with trying to re-state all that the book talks about, but the major point, very well told in the book, is that the world has changed and continues to change is fundamental ways. We all know it. We all feel it, though we can’t often name it or understand it or the meaning of it. We see it in the blur of technological change and how quickly the latest gadget is obsolete. We see it in how differently Baby Boomers, Gen Xers and Gen Nexters relate to authority and work. How, asks Keel, is the church to live in and be relevant to a world so dramatically different than that of a generation ago?
The world of healthcare has changed just as rapidly. Healthcare workers have changed. Patients have changed. Treatment and payment models have changed. It turns out that the religious experts and the healthcare experts face similar challenges. How can healthcare keep up with a changing landscape where our success depends equally upon quality measures and patient satisfaction scores? Keel’s message to the church is just as relevant to the hospital, I think. The church can’t just proclaim a message and expect to be heard and believed. The message must be lived in order to be heard.
Hospitals too must live out their mission. It isn’t enough anymore to be the experts in fixing broken bones, unclogging arteries or curing infections. They must live quality and they must also live care and compassion. In short, the answer for both, it seems to me is the sixth book I purchased. That book is by Gary Chapman. It is a collection of stories about how one person touched the life of another. The title is simple. The message is profound. “Love is a Verb.”
Blessings to you all,
Jerald
Friday, August 6, 2010
Daytime dreams
Glimmers
August 6, 2010
The tall young man in the tan suit haunts my daytime dreams. I saw him last week while at our denominational meeting in Orlando. We had several days of meetings with chaplains only, followed by meetings to discuss and vote on matters of importance to the whole church.
Wednesday night was set aside for worship. Franklin Graham, Billy Graham’s son, was the speaker and Israel Houghton and New Breed provided the music. Israel’s Latin-soul-gospel music was high energy and inspiring. The over 13,000 in attendance at the Orange County Convention Center were on their feet almost the whole time. It was during the music and praise that I saw him. He was on the back row of the section in front of me. He was in the fourth seat from the end of the row as you go from the right to the left. He was standing, like all the rest, not as animated as most of the crowd. A young woman stood at his side. His head was clean-shaven. A mask covered his nose and mouth. A mask.
I watched the singers and felt the power of the music, literally and figuratively. Then my eyes would go back to the young man in the mask. I wondered what he was thinking. Was he afraid? Was his faith intact? Did he wonder about God’s power, or love for him? Does he wonder if God really sees him and if God sees him, does he care?
As I watched him, this man I may never know, I whispered a prayer for him. “God bless the tall young man in the tan suit, that one, right over there in the back row. Give him strength for his battles and healing for his body.” “Bless his family and those who care for him and about him.” “Bless the medical team as they work with him and give them success.”
After Franklin Graham spoke, more music followed. At some point he slipped out with his family and I don’t even remember his leaving. But he haunts me still in my daytime dreams.
Blessings to you all,
Jerald
August 6, 2010
The tall young man in the tan suit haunts my daytime dreams. I saw him last week while at our denominational meeting in Orlando. We had several days of meetings with chaplains only, followed by meetings to discuss and vote on matters of importance to the whole church.
Wednesday night was set aside for worship. Franklin Graham, Billy Graham’s son, was the speaker and Israel Houghton and New Breed provided the music. Israel’s Latin-soul-gospel music was high energy and inspiring. The over 13,000 in attendance at the Orange County Convention Center were on their feet almost the whole time. It was during the music and praise that I saw him. He was on the back row of the section in front of me. He was in the fourth seat from the end of the row as you go from the right to the left. He was standing, like all the rest, not as animated as most of the crowd. A young woman stood at his side. His head was clean-shaven. A mask covered his nose and mouth. A mask.
I watched the singers and felt the power of the music, literally and figuratively. Then my eyes would go back to the young man in the mask. I wondered what he was thinking. Was he afraid? Was his faith intact? Did he wonder about God’s power, or love for him? Does he wonder if God really sees him and if God sees him, does he care?
As I watched him, this man I may never know, I whispered a prayer for him. “God bless the tall young man in the tan suit, that one, right over there in the back row. Give him strength for his battles and healing for his body.” “Bless his family and those who care for him and about him.” “Bless the medical team as they work with him and give them success.”
After Franklin Graham spoke, more music followed. At some point he slipped out with his family and I don’t even remember his leaving. But he haunts me still in my daytime dreams.
Blessings to you all,
Jerald
Saturday, July 24, 2010
Fantasy and reality
Glimmers
July 23, 2010
Well, I’m back from Fantasy Island. My wife and I celebrated 30 years of marriage with a vacation and cruise to Alaska. We had saved and planned for it for a long, long time and we thoroughly enjoyed it. Before the cruise, we spent some time in Washington State. We used to live there 28 years ago. We re-visited the house we used to live in and the hospital where Jessie, our first daughter, was born. It brought back a lot of memories and much appreciation for our journey together over the last 30 years.
This was not our first cruise, but it was by far the best. Alaska is beautiful! As a Florida native, I never tire of seeing majestic, snow-covered peaks. Of course, part of that enjoyment is the knowledge that I get to come home to Florida!
We awakened Saturday morning to the shocking reality that no one would cook our breakfast. No one would clean our room. No one would sneak in while we were at dinner and turn down our bed and leave chocolate on our pillow. No top-notch comedian would entertain us after dinner and no excursion to see humpback and killer whales was to come. Our fantasy was shattered!
But it turns out that real life invades fantasy all the time. You won’t hear about it, but people die on cruise ships quite often! One cruise ship doctor reported he had 4 deaths on one sailing. I had never thought of that. I guess it shouldn’t surprise me that when you get that many people, a good number of advanced age, that some of them reach their appointed time.
Yes, my cruise fantasy is over. But my reality is pretty good too. As my boss likes to say, “Any day you can do this,” extending his arms straight out, “is a good day.” Think about it. It will come to you.
Blessings to you all,
Jerald
July 23, 2010
Well, I’m back from Fantasy Island. My wife and I celebrated 30 years of marriage with a vacation and cruise to Alaska. We had saved and planned for it for a long, long time and we thoroughly enjoyed it. Before the cruise, we spent some time in Washington State. We used to live there 28 years ago. We re-visited the house we used to live in and the hospital where Jessie, our first daughter, was born. It brought back a lot of memories and much appreciation for our journey together over the last 30 years.
This was not our first cruise, but it was by far the best. Alaska is beautiful! As a Florida native, I never tire of seeing majestic, snow-covered peaks. Of course, part of that enjoyment is the knowledge that I get to come home to Florida!
We awakened Saturday morning to the shocking reality that no one would cook our breakfast. No one would clean our room. No one would sneak in while we were at dinner and turn down our bed and leave chocolate on our pillow. No top-notch comedian would entertain us after dinner and no excursion to see humpback and killer whales was to come. Our fantasy was shattered!
But it turns out that real life invades fantasy all the time. You won’t hear about it, but people die on cruise ships quite often! One cruise ship doctor reported he had 4 deaths on one sailing. I had never thought of that. I guess it shouldn’t surprise me that when you get that many people, a good number of advanced age, that some of them reach their appointed time.
Yes, my cruise fantasy is over. But my reality is pretty good too. As my boss likes to say, “Any day you can do this,” extending his arms straight out, “is a good day.” Think about it. It will come to you.
Blessings to you all,
Jerald
Wednesday, June 30, 2010
The Problem With Stereotypes
Glimmers
June 30,2010
Last month I had the opportunity to visit New York City for the first time. I went as part of a three-person training team sent by our denomination to teach at a church in Brooklyn. It was an eye-opening experience.
I used to think that if I met someone nice who was from New York, it was because they were from New York. Based on how New Yorkers are often depicted in television and movies, I assumed former New Yorkers must have had some sort of niceness conversion, a cultural epiphany or personality transplant to be so friendly. I thought all real New Yorkers glared menacingly and barked “Yo, what you lookin’at” and “You talkin’ ta me?” Last month’s brief visit to New York City blew a hole so big in my prejudice you could drive a battleship through it.
After spending the first day teaching at the East Flatbush Church of God, my fellow trainers and I returned to the hotel, changed clothes and headed out to Times Square. On the subway train, just after we passed Jamaica Station, it happened. The three of us, Vernon from Virginia, David from Iowa and I, were looking at subway maps and trying to figure out how best to get to Times Square. The young women in the blue work polo shirt asked, “Where are you wanting to go?” “Times Square,” David replied. We told her we wanted to get some famous New York pizza and see the famous landmark. She told us that 42nd St was the place to get off for Times Square, but if we wanted some really good pizza, we should get off on 52nd, turn right and about halfway down the block on the right, we’d find her favorite place downtown, Ray’s Pizza. We talked with her for a full thirty minutes until it was time for us to get off the train. Shockingly, she was not the last New Yorker we found to be friendly and helpful.
Two more times on successive trips to Manhattan, New Yorkers surprised me. On Friday night as we were transferring to a different train, we heard someone call out, “Hey, someone forgot their cell phone!” Slapping his pocket quickly, David discovered he was the one. Before the subway car doors closed, the nice New Yorker, after demanding he identify it, returned his cell phone to him.
Saturday afternoon, after seeing the sights in lower Manhattan and scooting up to Rockefeller Plaza, we headed through Grand Central Station to catch the subway to Canal Street so as to transfer to the J train and get back to our hotel near JFK. Noticing we looked a little confused, another nice New Yorker offered to help. “That train,” pointing to the Number 5, “might take you there.” “But this one," pointing to the Number 6, "I know will take you there.” She was from Upstate, but came to the city frequently. We thanked her, boarded our train and made it back in plenty of time for David to catch his 4:30 flight.
Prior to my trip, I would never have expected to meet New Yorkers who would go out of their way to help strangers, particularly three strangers with Southern accents (David from Iowa is originally from Alabama). My stereotypes were no match for real New Yorkers.
“What ya gonna do?” “Fogetaboutit.” Indeed.
Blessings to you all,
Jerald
June 30,2010
Last month I had the opportunity to visit New York City for the first time. I went as part of a three-person training team sent by our denomination to teach at a church in Brooklyn. It was an eye-opening experience.
I used to think that if I met someone nice who was from New York, it was because they were from New York. Based on how New Yorkers are often depicted in television and movies, I assumed former New Yorkers must have had some sort of niceness conversion, a cultural epiphany or personality transplant to be so friendly. I thought all real New Yorkers glared menacingly and barked “Yo, what you lookin’at” and “You talkin’ ta me?” Last month’s brief visit to New York City blew a hole so big in my prejudice you could drive a battleship through it.
After spending the first day teaching at the East Flatbush Church of God, my fellow trainers and I returned to the hotel, changed clothes and headed out to Times Square. On the subway train, just after we passed Jamaica Station, it happened. The three of us, Vernon from Virginia, David from Iowa and I, were looking at subway maps and trying to figure out how best to get to Times Square. The young women in the blue work polo shirt asked, “Where are you wanting to go?” “Times Square,” David replied. We told her we wanted to get some famous New York pizza and see the famous landmark. She told us that 42nd St was the place to get off for Times Square, but if we wanted some really good pizza, we should get off on 52nd, turn right and about halfway down the block on the right, we’d find her favorite place downtown, Ray’s Pizza. We talked with her for a full thirty minutes until it was time for us to get off the train. Shockingly, she was not the last New Yorker we found to be friendly and helpful.
Two more times on successive trips to Manhattan, New Yorkers surprised me. On Friday night as we were transferring to a different train, we heard someone call out, “Hey, someone forgot their cell phone!” Slapping his pocket quickly, David discovered he was the one. Before the subway car doors closed, the nice New Yorker, after demanding he identify it, returned his cell phone to him.
Saturday afternoon, after seeing the sights in lower Manhattan and scooting up to Rockefeller Plaza, we headed through Grand Central Station to catch the subway to Canal Street so as to transfer to the J train and get back to our hotel near JFK. Noticing we looked a little confused, another nice New Yorker offered to help. “That train,” pointing to the Number 5, “might take you there.” “But this one," pointing to the Number 6, "I know will take you there.” She was from Upstate, but came to the city frequently. We thanked her, boarded our train and made it back in plenty of time for David to catch his 4:30 flight.
Prior to my trip, I would never have expected to meet New Yorkers who would go out of their way to help strangers, particularly three strangers with Southern accents (David from Iowa is originally from Alabama). My stereotypes were no match for real New Yorkers.
“What ya gonna do?” “Fogetaboutit.” Indeed.
Blessings to you all,
Jerald
Thursday, June 17, 2010
Father's Day; A tribute to Ernest Ezell Rathbone
Glimmers
Father’s day edition, 2010
A tribute to Ernest Ezell Rathbone, Jan 6, 1930 – June 11, 2010, on the occasion of his funeral.
I am proud to say that Ernest Ezell Rathbone was my father in law. I met Steve and David Rathbone at Lee College, long before I met Sherry or her Mom and Dad. I met them when I moved to Tampa to work at Riverhills Christian School, and considering my prior experiences of knowing David and Steve, I found Mr. and Mrs. Rathbone to be remarkably normal. (A little brother in law humor). Even before I met Sherry, they took an interest in me and encouraged me.
This week, I overheard my mother in law talking about Dad’s military service as a mechanic on B52s. She said pilots used to ask for him because they knew he would tell them the truth about the plane and whether or not it should fly. He was the same way at church.
When I met him, Dad was a leader at the Riverhills Church of God. He served on the pastor’s council and took that role very seriously. He was every pastor’s dream. He was insightful, respectful, candid and kind and would kindly let them know whether or not their proposals would fly. In all the years I have known him, I have never heard him say an unkind word or critical remark about any of his pastors. He held his pastors in the highest regard. Whatever disagreements he may have had with them, I never heard about them. As a former pastor, I can tell you that pastors love people like my father in law.
When Sherry moved back home to live with them, they started inviting me to lunch after Sunday church. At first I thought they were just being nice. I was a little slow in realizing they were hoping something would click between us. The scheme didn’t work at first.
After a brief move back to Tennessee from Florida, they returned to Tampa in January of 1980. When I heard they were coming back, I discovered all those dinners had a delayed effect. I met them at the house and helped them unload the truck. Sherry and I started dating and on Feb. 29, 1980 I asked her to marry me. That evening, after her parents had gone to bed, we woke them up to share our news. With a mischievous grin, Dad said, “Let me be the first to offer my condolences.”
God willing, Sherry and I will celebrate our 30th anniversary on July 12th this year. We have three daughters of our own, three great sons in law and two grandsons.
After our daughter, Candace, married Chris Hatcher, I learned how wise my father in law really was. On the way to work one morning, after I was feeling particularly bad about overstepping my bounds with Chris, I called him up. I said, “Dad, I just want to thank you for being a great father in law. Now that I am one, I realize how hard it really is.” He said, “Thank you.” That was it. “Thank you.” Not “what did you do and how could you have been so stupid.” Just “thank you.”
So with that being said, I’d like to share some sage advice, my “top ten” if you will, on how to be a great father in law from the best father in law anyone could ask for.
10. Never let the words, “You did WHAT?” cross your lips.
9. Always encourage your son in law. Dad took to calling me his “highly intelligent son in law” early on. After a while, I started believing it myself.
8. Be supportive. Dad and Mom both told Sherry that if she left me and came back home, they would put her and her bags out on the porch and send her back. It goes without saying that would not apply if I mistreated her in any way. He was a big man and I was, after all, highly intelligent.
7. Celebrate their successes- don’t dwell on their failures. He had plenty of opportunities to be critical, but he never was.
6. Don’t meddle. I am not as good at this as he was. I have had to apologize for overstepping my boundaries more than once. I had the wonderful privilege of officiating the wedding ceremonies for all my girls and at the last one, I gave all my sons in law express permission to let me know if I forget the “leave and cleave” part of their vows. He never had to be told. In that way, he was far more intelligent than I.
5. Give advice only when asked. Same as above.
4. Pray for them. He was a man of prayer and I knew at some point during the day, he’d be praying for me.
3. Trust that God is at work in the process. I was often frustrated in my early career as a pastor. I have made a lot of mistakes and made some unwise decisions. He always believed I would eventually figure things out. It took me a long time to find out that my gifts are best suited for hospital chaplaincy. His steady trust that God was at work helped me not give in to discouragement.
2. Be a good example. I knew him long enough to learn he had some flaws. We all do. But he was as sincere a Christian as I have ever met.
1. Finally, and most importantly, treat your son in law like a son. There is a beautiful theological concept called adoption in the Christian faith. The Greek term is huiothesia. It is a combination of huios, “son” and tithamie “to place or put” (If Dr. Arrington, professor of New Testament Greek, was here, he’d be so proud of me). It means to place as a son with all the rights and privileges of a natural born child. That’s how Dad made me feel. I didn’t just marry into the family, I felt like I had been adopted. I was not a natural born son, but I was loved like one.
My own father died when I was 12 years old. That’s a hole in a boy’s life that never gets filled. But I was blessed to know a man who became a father to me, who in so many ways and so many times became the love and grace of God to me. I am a better man for having known him.
Blessings to you all,
Jerald
Father’s day edition, 2010
A tribute to Ernest Ezell Rathbone, Jan 6, 1930 – June 11, 2010, on the occasion of his funeral.
I am proud to say that Ernest Ezell Rathbone was my father in law. I met Steve and David Rathbone at Lee College, long before I met Sherry or her Mom and Dad. I met them when I moved to Tampa to work at Riverhills Christian School, and considering my prior experiences of knowing David and Steve, I found Mr. and Mrs. Rathbone to be remarkably normal. (A little brother in law humor). Even before I met Sherry, they took an interest in me and encouraged me.
This week, I overheard my mother in law talking about Dad’s military service as a mechanic on B52s. She said pilots used to ask for him because they knew he would tell them the truth about the plane and whether or not it should fly. He was the same way at church.
When I met him, Dad was a leader at the Riverhills Church of God. He served on the pastor’s council and took that role very seriously. He was every pastor’s dream. He was insightful, respectful, candid and kind and would kindly let them know whether or not their proposals would fly. In all the years I have known him, I have never heard him say an unkind word or critical remark about any of his pastors. He held his pastors in the highest regard. Whatever disagreements he may have had with them, I never heard about them. As a former pastor, I can tell you that pastors love people like my father in law.
When Sherry moved back home to live with them, they started inviting me to lunch after Sunday church. At first I thought they were just being nice. I was a little slow in realizing they were hoping something would click between us. The scheme didn’t work at first.
After a brief move back to Tennessee from Florida, they returned to Tampa in January of 1980. When I heard they were coming back, I discovered all those dinners had a delayed effect. I met them at the house and helped them unload the truck. Sherry and I started dating and on Feb. 29, 1980 I asked her to marry me. That evening, after her parents had gone to bed, we woke them up to share our news. With a mischievous grin, Dad said, “Let me be the first to offer my condolences.”
God willing, Sherry and I will celebrate our 30th anniversary on July 12th this year. We have three daughters of our own, three great sons in law and two grandsons.
After our daughter, Candace, married Chris Hatcher, I learned how wise my father in law really was. On the way to work one morning, after I was feeling particularly bad about overstepping my bounds with Chris, I called him up. I said, “Dad, I just want to thank you for being a great father in law. Now that I am one, I realize how hard it really is.” He said, “Thank you.” That was it. “Thank you.” Not “what did you do and how could you have been so stupid.” Just “thank you.”
So with that being said, I’d like to share some sage advice, my “top ten” if you will, on how to be a great father in law from the best father in law anyone could ask for.
10. Never let the words, “You did WHAT?” cross your lips.
9. Always encourage your son in law. Dad took to calling me his “highly intelligent son in law” early on. After a while, I started believing it myself.
8. Be supportive. Dad and Mom both told Sherry that if she left me and came back home, they would put her and her bags out on the porch and send her back. It goes without saying that would not apply if I mistreated her in any way. He was a big man and I was, after all, highly intelligent.
7. Celebrate their successes- don’t dwell on their failures. He had plenty of opportunities to be critical, but he never was.
6. Don’t meddle. I am not as good at this as he was. I have had to apologize for overstepping my boundaries more than once. I had the wonderful privilege of officiating the wedding ceremonies for all my girls and at the last one, I gave all my sons in law express permission to let me know if I forget the “leave and cleave” part of their vows. He never had to be told. In that way, he was far more intelligent than I.
5. Give advice only when asked. Same as above.
4. Pray for them. He was a man of prayer and I knew at some point during the day, he’d be praying for me.
3. Trust that God is at work in the process. I was often frustrated in my early career as a pastor. I have made a lot of mistakes and made some unwise decisions. He always believed I would eventually figure things out. It took me a long time to find out that my gifts are best suited for hospital chaplaincy. His steady trust that God was at work helped me not give in to discouragement.
2. Be a good example. I knew him long enough to learn he had some flaws. We all do. But he was as sincere a Christian as I have ever met.
1. Finally, and most importantly, treat your son in law like a son. There is a beautiful theological concept called adoption in the Christian faith. The Greek term is huiothesia. It is a combination of huios, “son” and tithamie “to place or put” (If Dr. Arrington, professor of New Testament Greek, was here, he’d be so proud of me). It means to place as a son with all the rights and privileges of a natural born child. That’s how Dad made me feel. I didn’t just marry into the family, I felt like I had been adopted. I was not a natural born son, but I was loved like one.
My own father died when I was 12 years old. That’s a hole in a boy’s life that never gets filled. But I was blessed to know a man who became a father to me, who in so many ways and so many times became the love and grace of God to me. I am a better man for having known him.
Blessings to you all,
Jerald
Thursday, June 3, 2010
Flashbacks
Glimmers
June 3, 2010
I’ve been having flashbacks lately. They are not like the ones associated with post-traumatic stress. These usually make me smile. A couple of weeks ago, I was driving home from Melbourne, Florida in the early evening. The rain had just ended. The air was warm and so heavy it seemed you could wring the moisture out of it like a wet rag. Suddenly, in my mind, I was driving through a curve on Old Centerville Road outside of Tallahassee. It is pitch black except for the glow of my headlights, steam rising from the wet pavement. It was a warm summer night and I was heading home from the Halstead’s house in my 1965 purple Corvair. Yes,purple. It had black vinyl interior and an under the dash 8 track that I had installed myself in Gene Williford's backyard. It was my first car and it was ugly, but it had only cost me a few hundred bucks and I was happy have a car-any car. That’s the feeling that “flashed back,” happiness.
A few days later, I saw a man riding a bicycle on South Barna near where it meets 405 here in Titusville. He was on the sidewalk and turned sharply to follow the curvy sidewalk path. Now I am nine years old on my bicycle with the high handlebars and the banana seat. I am on the sidewalk on the main street that runs through Brooker, FL. In my mind I am opening the screen door of the general store. Across the hardwood floors, to the left of the one manual cash register with the big numbers is a little cooler full of Royal Crown colas and Yoo-Hoo Chocolate sodas. A quarter is all it takes to satisfy my longing. Happiness!
Last week I made my first trip to New York City. It was an amazing experience about which I have much more to say and I’m saving it for next week’s Glimmers. For now, I’ll share another flashback. At the East Flatbush Church of God, where I joined with two other training instructors for the Church of God Chaplains commission to teach for three days, I am standing beside the table with pastries, coffee and tea. There is a big pot of hot water for the beverage of your choosing. The coffee is instant, Folgers Crystals to be exact. And instantly, I am transported to the dining room table of our 12x60 mobile home. I am eleven years old and feeling much older because my mother has allowed me to have coffee, Folgers Crystals instant, with my toast and jelly before heading off to school. I savor it- the aroma, the flavor, the brief encounter with grown-up privilege. I am blissfully unaware of the gathering storm the next few years would bring.
Memories are precious things. They are the repositories of our past, the stuff of who we are. No doubt you have some painful ones, like me. But when you have flashbacks to the good ones, stop and revel in them for a while. It may help you remember who you are and why you’re here.
Blessings to you all,
Jerald
June 3, 2010
I’ve been having flashbacks lately. They are not like the ones associated with post-traumatic stress. These usually make me smile. A couple of weeks ago, I was driving home from Melbourne, Florida in the early evening. The rain had just ended. The air was warm and so heavy it seemed you could wring the moisture out of it like a wet rag. Suddenly, in my mind, I was driving through a curve on Old Centerville Road outside of Tallahassee. It is pitch black except for the glow of my headlights, steam rising from the wet pavement. It was a warm summer night and I was heading home from the Halstead’s house in my 1965 purple Corvair. Yes,purple. It had black vinyl interior and an under the dash 8 track that I had installed myself in Gene Williford's backyard. It was my first car and it was ugly, but it had only cost me a few hundred bucks and I was happy have a car-any car. That’s the feeling that “flashed back,” happiness.
A few days later, I saw a man riding a bicycle on South Barna near where it meets 405 here in Titusville. He was on the sidewalk and turned sharply to follow the curvy sidewalk path. Now I am nine years old on my bicycle with the high handlebars and the banana seat. I am on the sidewalk on the main street that runs through Brooker, FL. In my mind I am opening the screen door of the general store. Across the hardwood floors, to the left of the one manual cash register with the big numbers is a little cooler full of Royal Crown colas and Yoo-Hoo Chocolate sodas. A quarter is all it takes to satisfy my longing. Happiness!
Last week I made my first trip to New York City. It was an amazing experience about which I have much more to say and I’m saving it for next week’s Glimmers. For now, I’ll share another flashback. At the East Flatbush Church of God, where I joined with two other training instructors for the Church of God Chaplains commission to teach for three days, I am standing beside the table with pastries, coffee and tea. There is a big pot of hot water for the beverage of your choosing. The coffee is instant, Folgers Crystals to be exact. And instantly, I am transported to the dining room table of our 12x60 mobile home. I am eleven years old and feeling much older because my mother has allowed me to have coffee, Folgers Crystals instant, with my toast and jelly before heading off to school. I savor it- the aroma, the flavor, the brief encounter with grown-up privilege. I am blissfully unaware of the gathering storm the next few years would bring.
Memories are precious things. They are the repositories of our past, the stuff of who we are. No doubt you have some painful ones, like me. But when you have flashbacks to the good ones, stop and revel in them for a while. It may help you remember who you are and why you’re here.
Blessings to you all,
Jerald
Thursday, May 6, 2010
My Stress-God's Problem
Glimmers
May 6, 2010
He is an imposing figure at 6’ 4” with a big frame and a smile that is bigger still. His name is Reverend Ira Lightsey. He serves as the minister at St. Mary Missionary Baptist Church in Mims, FL. He also works for the Brevard County school system as an assistant PE coach. Last year, he was named employee of the year, a well-deserved honor. We both are fathers of daughters and we have had some kinship moments around that common theme.
A few months back, I saw him at Wal-Mart with his youngest daughter. We waved at one another from a good distance away. After we got close enough to talk, he said his daughter had asked who I was. He said that he told her, “That’s my problem.” I laughed and said, “Well that’s great!” He wondered why I had said that and I told him that if I was his problem then I don’t have any problems. His daughter looked at us both in that roll your eyes teenager perfected kind of way.
I continue to think about the stressors we are dealing with in our community and the resource our faith affords us. In the silliness of that Wal-Mart meeting with my friend Ira, a profound truth is illustrated, a truth the Psalmist learned long ago.
Psalm 27 opens with a declaration that “the LORD is my light and my salvation, so why should I be afraid?” He rehearses all the reasons why he should not fear when faced with things that seem overwhelming to him. He lists outward things like evil people, foes, enemies, false accusers, opposing armies, and inward fears like being abandoned by those closest to him. In the face of it all, he remains confident. He says, “Even if my father and mother abandon me, the Lord will hold me close.” (Psalm 27:10). It is as though the Psalmist shows up before God, carrying his heavy load of worries and fears. Someone says to God, “Who is that?” God smiles with a smile bigger even than that of Ira Lightsey and says, “That’s MY problem.”
Peace to you all,
Jerald
May 6, 2010
He is an imposing figure at 6’ 4” with a big frame and a smile that is bigger still. His name is Reverend Ira Lightsey. He serves as the minister at St. Mary Missionary Baptist Church in Mims, FL. He also works for the Brevard County school system as an assistant PE coach. Last year, he was named employee of the year, a well-deserved honor. We both are fathers of daughters and we have had some kinship moments around that common theme.
A few months back, I saw him at Wal-Mart with his youngest daughter. We waved at one another from a good distance away. After we got close enough to talk, he said his daughter had asked who I was. He said that he told her, “That’s my problem.” I laughed and said, “Well that’s great!” He wondered why I had said that and I told him that if I was his problem then I don’t have any problems. His daughter looked at us both in that roll your eyes teenager perfected kind of way.
I continue to think about the stressors we are dealing with in our community and the resource our faith affords us. In the silliness of that Wal-Mart meeting with my friend Ira, a profound truth is illustrated, a truth the Psalmist learned long ago.
Psalm 27 opens with a declaration that “the LORD is my light and my salvation, so why should I be afraid?” He rehearses all the reasons why he should not fear when faced with things that seem overwhelming to him. He lists outward things like evil people, foes, enemies, false accusers, opposing armies, and inward fears like being abandoned by those closest to him. In the face of it all, he remains confident. He says, “Even if my father and mother abandon me, the Lord will hold me close.” (Psalm 27:10). It is as though the Psalmist shows up before God, carrying his heavy load of worries and fears. Someone says to God, “Who is that?” God smiles with a smile bigger even than that of Ira Lightsey and says, “That’s MY problem.”
Peace to you all,
Jerald
Tuesday, April 27, 2010
Stress allergies
Glimmers
April 27, 2010
April has turned out to be an interesting month. It has a number of things to commend it this year. It is Holocaust Month, Poetry Month, Jazz Appreciation Month and Be Vigilant Against Child Abuse Month. I vote we add “I’m Sick of Pollen Month” to the list.
As I was mowing the grass in the front yard a couple of weeks ago, along the edge of the driveway where it meets the street, the mower stirred up a suffocating yellow cloud from the oak pollen droppings that had covered the grass like a blanket of yellow-brown snow. My throat tightened, my nose began to run and it felt like I had gravel in the corners of my eyes.
The pollen season in Florida, and in much of the rest of the country, has been an especially tough one this year. Speculation is that it could be related to the much colder than normal winter we experienced. Whatever the reason, it has produced some unusual sights and sensations.
Last week, as it finally appeared to be ending, I shoveled up the oak pollen droppings I had blown into the street from my driveway and filled two 30-gallon garbage cans. You read that correctly. I shoveled POLLEN. And I wasn’t the only one. My neighbors, some clad in breathing masks and goggles, were doing the same thing. Another year like this and the city will need to acquire some Pollen Plows to clear the streets. I’ve never seen anything like it.
I am normally not affected too much by pollen season. I don’t have much of a problem with allergies. But I discovered that such an overwhelming dose of pollen could cause even the non-allergic to suffer.
April, in addition to the designations above, is also National Stress Awareness Month. Stress is a given in life. It always has been. And like pollen season, most of us cope with the normal levels of stress quite well with no ill effects. But sometimes, when the right environmental factors converge, a stress outbreak can overwhelm our coping mechanisms. It seems to me that this is one of those seasons for our community. On top of the normal stressors of life, we have the uncertainty of the Space Center’s future, the health care reform bill that recently passed, and the ongoing recession. How is it affecting you? How are you coping with it? Shovels may be good for an overwhelming outbreak of pollen, but dealing with stress requires other tools.
I think faith is certainly the first and most effective tool for stress. Scripture invites us to cast all our cares, our anxieties and stressors, onto the Lord because God cares for us (I Pet. 5:7). Start there. It may prevent you from doing some less productive things with your shovel.
Blessings to you all,
Jerald
April 27, 2010
April has turned out to be an interesting month. It has a number of things to commend it this year. It is Holocaust Month, Poetry Month, Jazz Appreciation Month and Be Vigilant Against Child Abuse Month. I vote we add “I’m Sick of Pollen Month” to the list.
As I was mowing the grass in the front yard a couple of weeks ago, along the edge of the driveway where it meets the street, the mower stirred up a suffocating yellow cloud from the oak pollen droppings that had covered the grass like a blanket of yellow-brown snow. My throat tightened, my nose began to run and it felt like I had gravel in the corners of my eyes.
The pollen season in Florida, and in much of the rest of the country, has been an especially tough one this year. Speculation is that it could be related to the much colder than normal winter we experienced. Whatever the reason, it has produced some unusual sights and sensations.
Last week, as it finally appeared to be ending, I shoveled up the oak pollen droppings I had blown into the street from my driveway and filled two 30-gallon garbage cans. You read that correctly. I shoveled POLLEN. And I wasn’t the only one. My neighbors, some clad in breathing masks and goggles, were doing the same thing. Another year like this and the city will need to acquire some Pollen Plows to clear the streets. I’ve never seen anything like it.
I am normally not affected too much by pollen season. I don’t have much of a problem with allergies. But I discovered that such an overwhelming dose of pollen could cause even the non-allergic to suffer.
April, in addition to the designations above, is also National Stress Awareness Month. Stress is a given in life. It always has been. And like pollen season, most of us cope with the normal levels of stress quite well with no ill effects. But sometimes, when the right environmental factors converge, a stress outbreak can overwhelm our coping mechanisms. It seems to me that this is one of those seasons for our community. On top of the normal stressors of life, we have the uncertainty of the Space Center’s future, the health care reform bill that recently passed, and the ongoing recession. How is it affecting you? How are you coping with it? Shovels may be good for an overwhelming outbreak of pollen, but dealing with stress requires other tools.
I think faith is certainly the first and most effective tool for stress. Scripture invites us to cast all our cares, our anxieties and stressors, onto the Lord because God cares for us (I Pet. 5:7). Start there. It may prevent you from doing some less productive things with your shovel.
Blessings to you all,
Jerald
Friday, April 2, 2010
The Hardest Question
Good Friday, 2010
I have heard “why?” a lot more than usual this week. It seems to be the favorite word of my 4-½ year old grandson, Christian. We spent Tuesday together and the “why” question came up in a multitude of forms. When the fish refused to participate in our fishing expedition and not so much as nibble on the hook, he asked “why?” “Why is the water dirty?” he asked, referring to the green stuff growing at the water’s edge. Later, at MacDonald’s for lunch, he pointed out the dragon toy that he wanted in his Happy Meal. When he got a Gronkle instead of a Night Fury he wanted to know why. I entertained “why” questions about alligators, blue herons and egrets. I offered explanations about manatees, turtles, minnows, shells, rain and sand. Some answers satisfied him. Some were met with yet more “whys.” As a chaplain, I’ve learned some “whys” can be much more complicated than the ones about dragons, real or imagined.
She looked at me as I sat in the chair just off to the side at the end of bed. The tears welled up in her eyes as she formed the question. “Why did this happen?” “What did I do to deserve this?” I listened as she searched in vain for some reason in her life, some behavior or sin that would explain why God had allowed her to suffer so. “I have prayed and prayed and prayed and I can’t understand.” “I just want to know why.” I felt the urge to explain it away or offer some defense for God’s questioned character and pushed it back, fighting to stay with her in the pain. No answer would have been adequate. And she is not alone.
He wondered aloud about unrealized hopes. Would he be there for his son’s graduation? Would he be there at his wedding? Would he ever know the joys of being a grandfather? “Why do the men in my family have such rotten genes?” “My brother, my father, my grandfather, all of them had rotten tickers!” “I thought I had beaten the odds, my heart is fine.” “So why did I get this cancer?”
“He’s just a baby.” “Why did God take my baby?” Her cry was inconsolable. It is the kind of pain every parent imagines and hopes never to experience. Her husband arrived and added “whys” of his own. Family and friends tried to answer them; saying things I learned long ago made no sense and offered no comfort.
Why questions about alligators and manatees are not so tough. “Why did God take my son?” “Why did God let this happen?” kind of questions are much more difficult. The best one can do sometimes, most times, is to be with them in silent brokenness. God knows.
Easter blessings,
Jerald
I have heard “why?” a lot more than usual this week. It seems to be the favorite word of my 4-½ year old grandson, Christian. We spent Tuesday together and the “why” question came up in a multitude of forms. When the fish refused to participate in our fishing expedition and not so much as nibble on the hook, he asked “why?” “Why is the water dirty?” he asked, referring to the green stuff growing at the water’s edge. Later, at MacDonald’s for lunch, he pointed out the dragon toy that he wanted in his Happy Meal. When he got a Gronkle instead of a Night Fury he wanted to know why. I entertained “why” questions about alligators, blue herons and egrets. I offered explanations about manatees, turtles, minnows, shells, rain and sand. Some answers satisfied him. Some were met with yet more “whys.” As a chaplain, I’ve learned some “whys” can be much more complicated than the ones about dragons, real or imagined.
She looked at me as I sat in the chair just off to the side at the end of bed. The tears welled up in her eyes as she formed the question. “Why did this happen?” “What did I do to deserve this?” I listened as she searched in vain for some reason in her life, some behavior or sin that would explain why God had allowed her to suffer so. “I have prayed and prayed and prayed and I can’t understand.” “I just want to know why.” I felt the urge to explain it away or offer some defense for God’s questioned character and pushed it back, fighting to stay with her in the pain. No answer would have been adequate. And she is not alone.
He wondered aloud about unrealized hopes. Would he be there for his son’s graduation? Would he be there at his wedding? Would he ever know the joys of being a grandfather? “Why do the men in my family have such rotten genes?” “My brother, my father, my grandfather, all of them had rotten tickers!” “I thought I had beaten the odds, my heart is fine.” “So why did I get this cancer?”
“He’s just a baby.” “Why did God take my baby?” Her cry was inconsolable. It is the kind of pain every parent imagines and hopes never to experience. Her husband arrived and added “whys” of his own. Family and friends tried to answer them; saying things I learned long ago made no sense and offered no comfort.
Why questions about alligators and manatees are not so tough. “Why did God take my son?” “Why did God let this happen?” kind of questions are much more difficult. The best one can do sometimes, most times, is to be with them in silent brokenness. God knows.
Easter blessings,
Jerald
Friday, March 12, 2010
Moments
Glimmers
March 12, 2010
"Listen to the cry of a woman in labor at the hour of giving birth - look at the dying man's struggle at his last extremity, and then tell me whether something that begins and ends thus could be intended for enjoyment." Soren Kierkegaard (1813-1855)
A friend of mine from college used this Kierkegaard quote as his Facebook status recently. My friend has experienced levels of pain I can hardly imagine and my heart aches for him. I can see how he would identify with Kierkegaard. I added a comment on his post that Kierkegaard must have been looking at the wrong moments.
Kierkegaard, for all his brilliance as a theologian and philosopher, never came across as particularly happy. He struggled with melancholy, what we now call depression. He passed on one opportunity for happiness by breaking up with the love of his life, thinking that he did not deserve such happiness-which makes one wonder about his theology. He never seemed to find another happy opportunity. I think he must have been the inspiration for the quote I saw on a bumper sticker once; “Life is hard, then you die.”
Clearly everyone’s life is different and I will allow that for some life holds little enjoyment at the beginning, or the end, or for many of the moments in between. But I don’t think that is true for all people.
Life is hard. It is often a struggle at the beginning, the end, and many moments in between. But these aren’t the only moments. There is that moment at the end of the aisle when she appears on her father’s arm and the breath nearly leaves the body. There is that moment just after the labor is over and we gaze at the miracle of new life and pain is overwhelmed by joy. The first smile and first word. There is the first day of school and the first step of faith.
Some moments are so full of joy the heart can barely contain them. Some are so full of pain the soul can hardly bear them. Moments. We’ve all had our moments. And we will have others, like the one after the labor is over and we gaze at the miracle of new life. I hope at the moment, after his “last extremity,” Kierkegaard saw that one and finally knew joy. Too bad he had to wait that long.
Blessings to you all,
Jerald
March 12, 2010
"Listen to the cry of a woman in labor at the hour of giving birth - look at the dying man's struggle at his last extremity, and then tell me whether something that begins and ends thus could be intended for enjoyment." Soren Kierkegaard (1813-1855)
A friend of mine from college used this Kierkegaard quote as his Facebook status recently. My friend has experienced levels of pain I can hardly imagine and my heart aches for him. I can see how he would identify with Kierkegaard. I added a comment on his post that Kierkegaard must have been looking at the wrong moments.
Kierkegaard, for all his brilliance as a theologian and philosopher, never came across as particularly happy. He struggled with melancholy, what we now call depression. He passed on one opportunity for happiness by breaking up with the love of his life, thinking that he did not deserve such happiness-which makes one wonder about his theology. He never seemed to find another happy opportunity. I think he must have been the inspiration for the quote I saw on a bumper sticker once; “Life is hard, then you die.”
Clearly everyone’s life is different and I will allow that for some life holds little enjoyment at the beginning, or the end, or for many of the moments in between. But I don’t think that is true for all people.
Life is hard. It is often a struggle at the beginning, the end, and many moments in between. But these aren’t the only moments. There is that moment at the end of the aisle when she appears on her father’s arm and the breath nearly leaves the body. There is that moment just after the labor is over and we gaze at the miracle of new life and pain is overwhelmed by joy. The first smile and first word. There is the first day of school and the first step of faith.
Some moments are so full of joy the heart can barely contain them. Some are so full of pain the soul can hardly bear them. Moments. We’ve all had our moments. And we will have others, like the one after the labor is over and we gaze at the miracle of new life. I hope at the moment, after his “last extremity,” Kierkegaard saw that one and finally knew joy. Too bad he had to wait that long.
Blessings to you all,
Jerald
Friday, February 19, 2010
Consider the Ant
February 19, 2010
Take a lesson from the ants, you lazybones. Learn from their ways and become wise! (Proverbs 6:6 NLT)
I can remember being in 2nd grade and playing with a small magnifying glass on the playground at recess. I was amazed at how focused sunlight could burn a hole in an oak leaf in just a few seconds.
I confess, I did not always utilize this solar power constructively. Many ants became targets of my concentrated light beams and died untimely deaths. If I knew then what I know now about ants, I would have had more respect, unless they are the fire ant variety and for them I have only the worst of intentions.
Ants really are marvels of nature. They were here before the dinosaurs and have survived everything the world has thrown at them. Some live in colonies of as few as eighteen ants and some colonies are in the tens of thousands. Some ants live in mounds and some never seem to settle down at all, moving constantly from place to place. As they travel and hunt for food, they may encounter streams that block their path. Locking thousands of their little ant bodies together, they will make bridges of themselves so that the rest of them can cross over the stream to continue their relentless assault.
Last week, I saw a youtube video of an excavated ant mound that would amaze the most brilliant engineer. Biologists poured concrete into the abandoned mound, waited for it to set, and then dug out the surrounding dirt. The concrete remains revealed tunnels fifteen feet below the surface and forty feet in width. It was obvious that the ants had communicated together on the design of the mound and had worked together as a unit to bring it to life. The tunnels were connected to caverns for waste, food storage and for new generations of ants in the making. The mound was designed with multiple vents that were placed so that the warm air rising from decomposing food and waste drew cool air in from the surface to keep the mound at an ideal temperature. And they did it all without computers!
People from Solomon to Aesop have encouraged people to study the ant and learn wisdom. I think that is great advice. They can teach us a lot about hard work, thrift and working together. But I would also advise you to run from any kid with a magnifying glass.
Blessings to you all,
Jerald
Take a lesson from the ants, you lazybones. Learn from their ways and become wise! (Proverbs 6:6 NLT)
I can remember being in 2nd grade and playing with a small magnifying glass on the playground at recess. I was amazed at how focused sunlight could burn a hole in an oak leaf in just a few seconds.
I confess, I did not always utilize this solar power constructively. Many ants became targets of my concentrated light beams and died untimely deaths. If I knew then what I know now about ants, I would have had more respect, unless they are the fire ant variety and for them I have only the worst of intentions.
Ants really are marvels of nature. They were here before the dinosaurs and have survived everything the world has thrown at them. Some live in colonies of as few as eighteen ants and some colonies are in the tens of thousands. Some ants live in mounds and some never seem to settle down at all, moving constantly from place to place. As they travel and hunt for food, they may encounter streams that block their path. Locking thousands of their little ant bodies together, they will make bridges of themselves so that the rest of them can cross over the stream to continue their relentless assault.
Last week, I saw a youtube video of an excavated ant mound that would amaze the most brilliant engineer. Biologists poured concrete into the abandoned mound, waited for it to set, and then dug out the surrounding dirt. The concrete remains revealed tunnels fifteen feet below the surface and forty feet in width. It was obvious that the ants had communicated together on the design of the mound and had worked together as a unit to bring it to life. The tunnels were connected to caverns for waste, food storage and for new generations of ants in the making. The mound was designed with multiple vents that were placed so that the warm air rising from decomposing food and waste drew cool air in from the surface to keep the mound at an ideal temperature. And they did it all without computers!
People from Solomon to Aesop have encouraged people to study the ant and learn wisdom. I think that is great advice. They can teach us a lot about hard work, thrift and working together. But I would also advise you to run from any kid with a magnifying glass.
Blessings to you all,
Jerald
Friday, February 5, 2010
Fwd: Glimmers, Feb. 5, 2010
Wait patiently for the Lord. Be brave and courageous .Yes, wait patiently for the Lord. (Psalm 27:14, NLT)
For some things, there are no shortcuts. How I wish it wasn't so. There are Cliff notes for major literary works, instant potatoes and pre-fabricated buildings that can be erected in a few hours, but taking shortcuts on some things just don't work out.
Dr. Pat Manning, Parrish Medical Center board member and retired educator, has loved butterflies for as long as she can remember. Throughout her teaching career, she would adorn her student's papers with am image of a butterfly. As time went on, she refined the image into her own personal "Coat of Arms." Dr. John Manning, her husband, loved her much and came to love her butterflies as much as she did. He made their yard a haven for butterflies and he became a student of their ways. As it turns out, butterflies have much to teach us.
Butterflies go through some dramatic changes during their life span. They begin as a tiny egg and emerge as a caterpillar. The caterpillar will eat almost constantly and grow considerably, shedding its skin multiple times in the process. After a few weeks, the caterpillar will attach itself to some branch or twig and begin a remarkable metamorphosis. Hidden inside the protective covering of the chrysalis, the worm-like caterpillar transforms into thing of delicate beauty. When the time is right, the chrysalis splits and the adult butterfly struggles to emerge.
Once free of the chrysalis, the butterfly must wait. It takes time to pump the blood into the fragile wings so they become fully deployed and rigid enough to catch the breeze. An impatient observer may wish to rush the process and assist the butterfly by pulling on the wings to extend them. Rushing the process will most likely result in damaging the wings and the butterfly will never be able to take flight.
During the course of our lives, we go through some dramatic changes too. It is easy to get impatient with some of the stages of our own lives, or sometimes with the life of someone else. Why can't we take off? Why is she just sitting there? Why am I still stuck on this branch? Why is it taking so long? What is God waiting for?
Butterflies know. Some things just can't be rushed.
Blessings to you all,
Jerald
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