Glimmers

The Highest Compliment

2011-12-20T06:00:00.000-08:00

In the first chapter of Matthew, there is an accounting of the birth of Jesus. It is not as long or as elaborate as the one found in Luke, but I happen to like it better. I have my reasons and would be happy to explain them to you, but I will save that for another time.

In Matthew’s telling of it, there is little fanfare, no harking of the herald angels or adoring shepherds. We are told briefly about Mary and Joseph being betrothed, which in those days was the first step of a binding marital covenant. Usually the bride and husband were called just that after this first step and it could not be ended without some legal process and without good reason. And we are told that Mary was “with child” i.e. PREGNANT! Under the category of “good reason,” that would have certainly qualified.

I have always assumed Joseph was a normal man; that he had the hopes of a normal man and the feelings of a normal man and was probably hurt and ashamed like a normal man would be and probably angry like a normal man. But Matthew tells us “Joseph was a righteous man,” (Mt. 1:19). It is given as a simple, forthright statement of fact. And every time I read it, it hits me right between the eyes. I can’t tell you how many times I have read that and wished he’d written something else!
Being righteous or upright is not about right thinking or even right feeling. It is about right doing. Here was a good man. Here was a right-doing man and he was confronted with something that sure seemed incredibly wrong. Now remember, he did not have the luxury of the explanation that Matthew supplies to us like a secret whispered in our ear. Would Joseph do the right thing? Would he shame her publicly? Would he allow his hurt feelings, his sense of betrayal, his sense of justice and perceived “wrong-ness” of another’s actions to drive his response? Joseph, the righteous man, had determined to do the right thing in the right way and because of that something even more right happened.

If we have chosen to care for people and care about people, we will soon be confronted with things that feel wrong, that are wrong and we will sometimes be wrongly treated even by the people we are trying to help. And it will surely hurt. And we will be tempted to respond in kind. Do right anyway. The angels are watching.

May you be blessed this Christmas season!

Jerald

Remembering My Blessings

2011-11-21T18:13:00.000-08:00

“Choose twelve men from among the people, one from each tribe, and tell them to take up twelve stones from the middle of the Jordan, from right where the priests are standing, and carry them over with you and put them down at the place where you stay tonight.” (Joshua 4:2,3)

Recording important events, historic occasions or legal transactions required significantly more effort in Joshua’s day than it does now. Agreements were chiseled in stone and monuments were erected at historic sites. Now documents and photos can be digitized and sent across the world almost instantly. For the occasion of crossing the Jordan, Joshua wanted to make sure the people remembered. Still ringing in his ears was the warning of Moses who had led the people out of Egypt and for forty plus years in the desert wilderness. Moses had warned them to not forget the events that had brought them there. He knew their nature and ours as well. Forgetting comes so easily to us. So Joshua told them to pick one person from each of the twelve tribes. Each one was to pick up a rock from the middle of the Jordan and carry it with them to the encampment they would settle in for the night. There they stacked the stones to fashion a historic marker of the day’s events. “In the future, when your children ask you, ‘What do these stones mean?’ tell them that the flow of the Jordan was cut off before the ark of the covenant of the LORD. When it crossed the Jordan, the waters of the Jordan were cut off. These stones are to be a memorial to the people of Israel forever.” (Joshua 4:6b, 7 NIV)

Thanksgiving is about remembering. It is about visiting the places in your heart where you have piled up stones to mark the important events, the places in your life’s journey were you were up against it and God showed up. It is about those places where you knew you were blessed and you were sure you could never forget the feelings, the moment, the people, the place. But we can. We do. We forget our blessings and the One who provided them just as easily as they did in Moses’ day. His warning to them is a pertinent to us now as it was to them then. “Be careful!” “Don’t forget!” But they did. And I do. And so have you. So before this Thanksgiving passes, I’m taking some time to re-visit some stones that I have piled up through the years and remember their meaning.

There is the beautiful young woman on her father’s arm at the end of the aisle at that church in Tampa, Florida. Here are three little girls wrapped in pink and white baby blankets. And there is the hospital waiting room where we heard “it isn’t cancer, she’ll be ok” when she was twelve. Those stones over there are for three weddings, two grandchildren and two more on the way. And these are for the house on Fox Ct in Titusville, FL and the tiny apartment on Sutherland in Knoxville, TN so that I won't forget how far I have come. Places. Stones. Blessings. There are these and so many more.

This Thanksgiving, remember those places, those stone piles in your own life. Pay them another visit. And give thanks!

Happy Thanksgiving!

Jerald

Dad plus 16

2011-10-19T14:15:00.000-07:00

“So teach us to number our days, that we may apply our hearts unto wisdom” (Psalm 90:12)

As of today, I’m 56 years or 20454 days old. I’m sixteen years older than my father was at the time of his death. Sixteen years seems like a long time, and it is, I suppose. But in those moments when I stop to reflect, it also seems remarkably brief. And that is what I have been doing the last few days. Mostly I’ve been reflecting on all the things I have been able to see, do and experience that my father didn’t.

He didn’t see us getting ready for our first day on our first job. My father didn’t see his children graduate from high school. He didn’t get to spend his twentieth anniversary with my mom. He missed witnessing the nervous excitement of his daughters as he walked them down the aisle to give them away to equally nervous young men. And what he wouldn’t have given to be able to see his children’s children, to hold them in his arms and to experience that moment when the lights go on as the weight of parenthood settles on their shoulders.

I have had those moments. I have had these sixteen years. I don’t care about the gray hair or the crow's feet. I have lived the past sixteen years…and in each of those moments when I have experienced such remarkable joy, I have thought about him and what he has missed. And I have wished that my wife, children and grandchildren could have known the sweet, funny, gentle man that he was.

I miss him today. I always will. I know that. But mostly what I am feeling today is a profound sense of gratitude. In the past sixteen years, I have experienced more blessings than I could have imagined.

What about you? Looking back over your last sixteen years, you probably can remember blessings of your own, as well as heartbreaks, hard times and even failures. But for a moment, think about the blessings. Take the time today to re-live those moments, to savor them and to give thanks for them.

What will the next sixteen years bring? I have no idea. But if they could be half as special as the last sixteen, bring it on!
Jerald

Pulling Weeds

2011-09-08T14:39:00.000-07:00

Glimmers
September 8, 2011

“When the crop began to grow and produce grain, the weeds also grew.” Matthew 13:26 NLT

I share the following with a caution: please do not read this and go away thinking that the chaplain is so spiritual that he is constantly thinking about scripture and God and such. And I refuse to be put on a pedestal. Sometimes I think of spiritual things while I am about the routine tasks of being a homeowner and sometimes I just mow. I don’t mind mowing grass. I love planting new annuals and shrubs. I don’t like pulling weeds.

Last week, unable to stand it any longer, I attacked a patch of weeds in the backyard flower bed. As I was on my knees pulling the weeds from the flowers, some of the flowers were pulled up as well. I tried to avoid it, but even so some of the flowers suffered along with the weeds. Now here is where the spiritual part comes in. I suddenly thought about the parable of the wheat and tares (Matthew 13:24-30). “See,” said the Voice inside my head, “That’s what I meant.” “Try as you might to distinguish flowers and weeds, you will sometimes mess up.”

This is a cautionary tale- a parable about miss-judgment (I misspelled it for emphasis). Wheat and tares (weeds) look almost identical, especially in the early growth stages. Attempting to separate them out can lead to costly mistakes. Pulling the weeds sounds like a good idea, but wheat will be destroyed in the effort. When Jesus speaks of wheat and tares, he is really talking about people. It is a story to prove a point.

When we judge a person who comes to our hospital as a drug-seeker, a deadbeat, non-compliant, frequent flyer, neurotic who should be making better choices-we may have every reason to think so today- based on empirical evidence and observation. Our judgment about them today may be dead-on. They may look like a weed today. But who knows what will they be tomorrow, or next week, or next year at the end of the process? They may turn out to be something entirely different from what they appear to be today! What if two years from now, having completed rehab, they have found employment, obtained insurance, cleaned up, got their head on straight and they come back into our hospital for appendicitis, would we treat them differently? Honestly now…maybe we would. And that is the point. We don’t know how things will turn out. We don’t know who is a weed and who is a stalk of wheat by looking at them today. “Let them grow up together.” “Treat them all the same and let me sort out all that stuff at the end of the harvest.”

I know I will still have to fight the urge to draw conclusions and distinctions based on the foul language and self destructive lifestyles of some of the people I will meet in the course of my work. I am human after all. But I got the message…and I will fight the urge and do my best to love everybody the same and let God sort out all the rest at some later date.

Jerald

Are you ready for work?

2011-09-01T14:22:00.000-07:00

Ezra 7:6 “This Ezra went up from Babylon; and he was a ready scribe in the law of Moses…”

I know that most of you who read Glimmers are not ministers. As such, it may be difficult to relate to much of what ministers are about, especially those ministers who have the task of preaching each Sunday. But modern healthcare is acutely focused on quality and if you’ll allow, I’ll do my best to show how much you and the minister share in common.

Paul E. Scherer writes in “For We Have This Treasure” about the seriousness of the minister’s task; “It takes muscle and sweat to write a sermon. To fasten a man’s attention and challenge his respect is not done lightly, no matter how worthy your material or how exalted your theme,” (pg. 144). Quality is not done on the cheap in any profession.

This readiness is of two kinds, says Scherer. “There is the kind that begins away back in the past somewhere and continues steadily through the years,” (p. 145). “Then there is that kind of preparation which begins when the threat or promise of next Sunday falls like a shadow or a song across the week. Generalities can go hang then, something specific has to happen, (p. 146).” The minister who does not keep the spirit sharp and the mind fresh and current is doomed.

In ministry, as in healthcare or any profession really, you come to your work with your accumulated experiences and education to draw upon. You have the first kind of readiness. However, you can’t rest on your laurels. The world keeps changing and the world of healthcare is no different. If you fail to keep learning, you fail. Or if you fail to bring all of your attention to the current moment to care for the person before you, you fail. And if you fail in healthcare, the consequences can be immediately catastrophic.

At the baccalaureate service on the night before I graduated from seminary, F. J. May spoke about the Old Testament prophet Ezra, the “ready scribe.” He had a lifetime of preparation - the first kind of readiness. And he had prepared himself for that instant when he was called upon - the second kind of readiness. Dr. May, one of the best preachers I have ever heard, told a story of his own lack of readiness. While he was in seminary working on his doctorate, he was also the pastor of a busy church. He missed the due date on an assignment and offered his work as an excuse. “Professor, I’m sorry I didn’t complete my assignment. I am the pastor of a very busy church and was unable to get it done.” As best as I can remember, his professor said “Rev. May, I am not here to hear excuses on why you didn’t get your work done. I’m just here to grade the work that you do.”

Our patients come here expecting excellence. We have made ourselves ready by our education and training. We are qualified, no doubt, or we wouldn’t be here. But the people we’ll serve today will not be grading us on how well we did on our nursing boards or the cogent thoughts of our doctoral thesis. They will be grading us on how well we bring all of our expertise to bear in this present moment, this sacred moment when their need meets our loving response (Erie Chapman). They’ll be grading us on how well we care for them. Are you “ready” for that?

Blessings to you all!
Jerald

The Problem With Hindsight

2011-07-23T05:24:00.000-07:00

July 22, 2011
One of the things I remember from my early days of serving as a local church pastor is the sticker shock I experienced when I saw the price tag of the group health insurance for the ministers in my state. The plans would often change year to year as some new insurer took over. It turns out ministers are a high-risk group! That may seem surprising to some of you, but the reasons are not that hard to understand. Ministers often work long hours, answer phone calls at all hours of the night, walk with families through heartbreak, put a lot of themselves into their work…and often don’t take care of themselves very well. It is the last part that is the killer, literally.

In 1944 at Yale University, standing before young ministers on the cusp of their careers, Paul Scherer warned them to take care of themselves. It is an odd thing that ministers, called to be stewards of the Scripture and of the congregations they serve, are often not good stewards of themselves.
“My word to you is that you regard and treat this aspect of your ministry as fundamental. The training of the body may be of small service, as Paul says, when you compare it with training for the religious life (I Timothy 4:8); but squanderers of health are quite as culpable as any other squanderers and profligates. They will answer for it. The plain fact is that you cannot serve God as you might with an instrument that you have abused; whether from ignorance or with full knowledge, whether by harmful habits or by careless inattention makes no difference. And Life and God will some day render their account and want to know why.” (Scherer, For We Have This Treasure p. 33, 34)

I suspect ministers are not the only guilty parties here. Recently, my wife and I joined the fitness center run by the hospital. If you work here and you take a few steps, you can join it for free. FOR FREE! She has been going almost every day. I went with her to a Zumba class for the first time the other night. I don’t know if the ache in my gut afterward was from trying to copy the instructor’s moves or from laughing so hard at myself as I tried to keep up. It was a lot of fun and a great work out too.

He spoke from the hospital bed, aided by the oxygen flowing through the tubing that hung over his ears and under his nose. “If I had known I was going to live so long, I’d have taken better care of myself.” he said, half smiling and totally serious. His story was as clear an example of 20/20 hindsight as I have ever heard. But that is the problem with hindsight. It yields wisdom, to be sure, but the consequences of the lessons learned are sometimes irreversible.

Life and God will indeed render their account.

I’d rather learn from forewarning any day. You?

Blessings to you all,
Jerald

Buried Treasure

2011-07-14T15:50:00.000-07:00

July 11, 2011

I found the treasure buried in plain sight on my office bookcase. I have had it in my possession for over twenty years. I don’t recall when or where I purchased it. It must have caught my eye as being something of possible value as a young preacher learning his craft. I remember reading it with the cursory kind of attention the young often give to the wisdom of the aged and experienced and was not then particularly impressed.

Now as I read it, what riches I find! Paul E. Scherer’s book For We Have This Treasure is a truly a gold mine. It dates back to 1944, to dark days in American history. The Great Depression had given way to the Great Madness of WWII and it seemed as if there was no end to the evils a human could perpetrate on another and the world was all but overwhelmed with a purposeless dread. At that moment, Paul Scherer stepped into a lecture hall at Yale University to address young ministers on the importance of their calling. Some of what he said applies uniquely to ministry, of course. But, whether you believe it or not, preachers are people too and much of what he said applies to all of us.

One of the temptations common to ministers and everyone else I suspect, is the temptation to think that somehow God left something out or made a mistake with us. We compare ourselves to someone else who we may think looks better or sings better or speaks better and wish we were anyone else but the person that God made us to be. If that speaks to you as it does me, then listen to this: In preaching, he says, the one thing that is unique that you bring to the table is yourself. “The human heart is not new, the need is not new, the truth is not new, the method is not new. You are new. You are a bit of God’s unrepeated handiwork; and what he means to accomplish by you, he must accomplish through you.” (Scherer, p. 38)

Sure, we ought to be good stewards of our bodies and our minds and be the best us that we can be. But to strive so hard and to be filled with such frustration that we are not like someone else we think is better in some way is to belittle ourselves and God.

You have your unique fingerprints, your unique iris pattern, and your unique self ..."a bit of God's unrepeated handiwork" to offer to God and the world for a reason. It would be a sad thing to go through life and only offer an imitation, even a good imitation, of a somebody that has already been tried.

Blessings to you all,
Jerald

The Starship Atlantis

2011-07-11T04:08:00.000-07:00

Glimmers

July 8, 2011; the final voyage of the starship Atlantis.
Imagine that line being read by William Shatner. Imagine a truck with a cramped cab and a massive cargo trailer attached to three huge, powerful rockets and you have our beloved Space Shuttle. And today was the last one. The very last one. It is hard to imagine that.

When the first Shuttle went up on April 12, 1981, I was newly married and working as associate pastor of a church in Sanford, FL. Officially dubbed STS 1, I watched from the church parking lot as Columbia hurtled toward space. Even from that distance, it was quite impressive.

The Challenger disaster is one of those "I remember where I was when it happened" moments, like the Kennedy assassination or 9/11. We were living in Selmer, TN at the time. I was the pastor of a small church and was working as a substitute teacher at the middle school that day. All school work stopped. People sat stunned in their seats. Here in Central Florida, the grief was deeper, I’m told. The atmosphere turned from celebration to horror, and then to mourning in a matter of seconds. Here monuments to the crew remain to remind us. There are schools named after crew members McNair and McAuliffe and for the vehicle itself. Here we live surrounded by the history of Space.

I know people who were charged with going to Texas to search for pieces of Columbia in the aftermath of its breakup during re-entry in on October 15, 2003. For some the impact was akin to the PTSD that soldiers experience after combat. And yet the program endured.

With the exception of those two missions, the Shuttle has been remarkably successful. Because of the Shuttle program, we have the international space station and the Hubble telescope. And we also have microchips and MRI machines, artificial hearts and smoke detectors, LED lights and digital mammography, Mylar balloons and Kevlar vests, microwave ovens and cell phones, sports domes and football helmets. These are a few of the thousands of inventions and advancements that owe their existence to the program.

Atlantis is STS 135. 134 times we have witnessed this marvel climb into the skies, clouded in steamy vapor and shaking the earth as the sound reverberated outward from the launch pad. 132 times twin sonic booms have announced the successful completion of the assigned mission. And now we wait for it just once more.

We will miss you indeed.

Jerald

Freedom isn't free

2011-05-27T12:30:00.000-07:00

I love bumper stickers. I even love bumper stickers that goad my own sacred cows- theologically and politically- if they are clever. Crude bumper stickers obviously don’t meet the clever test so I especially don’t like them.

Years ago, while driving on I-4 between Orlando and Lakeland, I was passed by a truck from a particular meat company that had a bumper sticker on the top right hand side of the rear panel. It read, “I didn’t climb all the way to the top of the food chain to eat veggies.” I was all alone in the car and laughing out loud.

Some bumper stickers are not funny or clever, but good anyway. “Freedom isn’t Free” comes to mind as we approach Memorial Day. Freedom, it turns out, is quite costly.

He was in bed 8 in the ICU at Cape Canaveral Hospital years ago, a grizzled old guy struggling with heart issues and COPD. I stopped in to see how he was doing and introduced myself. “Chaplain, I don’t think I believe in God,” he said. “Not after all the things I’ve seen and done.” He was a WWII veteran. Sixty years later, he was still paying the high cost of his service, physically, emotionally and spiritually. I didn’t try to argue for God. I don’t do that anymore. I think God is much better at proving himself than I could ever be. I tried to be with him in a way I think that God would have been. “I’m sorry you had to do so much, see so much that has cost you so much,” I said.

Many have paid the price with their lives, as Memorial Day reminds us. There are many more like the grizzled old guy in ICU 8, veterans old and young walking around still paying the costs of freedom, whether active duty or long since retired. And their families pay a high cost as well- empty chairs on holidays, post traumatic stress, adjusting to deployments and homecomings and trying hard to maintain family relationships over the phone, on Facebook or Skype. Indeed, freedom is not free.

So another bumper sticker with a good message-not clever or funny, but good nonetheless; “If you love your freedom, thank a Vet.” My sentiments exactly.

Happy Memorial Day

Jerald

Planting

2011-04-30T05:15:00.000-07:00

Glimmers
April 29, 2011

“Through some moment of beauty or pain, some sudden turning of our lives, we catch glimmers of at least what the saints are blinded by…” (Frederick Buechner, Listening To Your Life, p. 169)

The following is the president’s message I wrote for Space Coast Grief Education Alliance. SCGEA is a collection of professionals from various fields who offer education and support for those who are grieving the death of someone loved and important in their lives.

In this message, I reference one or our care partners from Parrish Medical Center. I am proud to be a part of PMC and to work with people who make a difference in the lives of others every day. Sometimes you see that in a matter of hours, as in the case referenced here. Sometimes you see that years later and sometimes you may never know the difference you’ve made.

Blessings,

Jerald

SC GEA
President’s Message

Like some of you I presume, I have been doing a good bit of yard work of late. The current project is re-planting the flower beds in the back yard. I am late doing it this year because of another project I just completed; a retaining wall and pathway from the fence gate on the side of the house to the screen door around back.

Planting things can be a hit or miss exercise. The plants I chose last year were really a bust. They simply did not do well in spite of my best efforts. But I am back at it with hopes of better results this year. We’ll see…

I took some satisfaction this past week from a planting of another sort. When I worked for Brevard Hospice years ago, I worked with three boys from Titusville, two identical twins and a younger sibling. Their father died and their mom had asked for some help with them to help them deal with their grief. I think the fact that I had experienced the loss of my father at about the same age help us connect. I worked with them a few weeks. It has been too long to remember just how many.

When I came to work at Parrish Medical Center in 2004, who do you think I met? The twins! Both are now EMTs and work in the Emergency Department at Parrish, as well as for Brevard County Fire Rescue. It was great to see how they had grown into young men any parent would be proud of.

While on duty for the Fire Department a couple of weeks ago, David, one of the twins, responded to a call for help. When he arrived, the man was sitting on his steps talking on the phone. He said he wasn’t sure he really needed to go to the hospital and kept talking on the phone. One quick look and David was sure. He said, “Sir, hang up the phone, we have to go now.” While I can’t share all the details, the result was a man was saved from certain death by David’s assessment and action.

Now I know that I was not the only influence in the lives of those boys thirteen years ago. I know others had larger and more important roles, particularly their parents and extended family. But I also know I planted something that they still remember and talk about.

When I look around the room at our meetings, I see professionals who make a difference, who plant hope in the broken soil of others’ grief and loss. We don’t always get the privilege of seeing the result of what we do, what we “plant” in the lives of others. But don’t think for a minute that it doesn’t matter.

Until next time,

Jerald

Despicable me

2011-03-23T14:27:00.000-07:00

Glimmers
March 23, 2011

Among the many positives of having children, and now grandchildren, in my life is that I can watch children’s movies and not have to explain myself. My favorites from when my girls were small are The Little Mermaid and Beauty and the Beast. In both, the animation was fantastic, the stories were engaging and the music was clever. If you ever saw The Little Mermaid, you can probably still hum the tune of “Under the Sea.” Celine Dion and Peabo Bryson’s version of the theme song from Beauty and the Beast was so good it was on the pop charts for weeks after the movie debuted. I probably would have never seen either of those if it hadn’t been for the three sweet little girls in my life.

I remember seeing a big poster display in the mall sometime this past Christmas season for the movie Despicable Me. I had no idea what it was about and really had no desire to see it. My grandson asked me if I had seen it. When I said no, he said, “You really need to see it.” I followed his advice and rented it a short while later. I’m glad I did. The lead character is a “criminal mastermind.” He is selfish and self-absorbed. He brings three little orphan girls into his life so that he can use their irresistible charms to further his schemes. He quickly learned, as I did, to never underestimate the power of three little girls to change your life. By the end of the movie he is a different person, totally smitten by their love and more lovable as a result. Forced to attend to their needs, he finds that being selfish and self-absorbed ain’t all its cracked up to be.

Someone once asked Jesus what was the greatest commandment. “Love the LORD your God with all your heart, mind, and strength,” he replied. “And the second is like it. Love your neighbor as yourself.” The exchange is followed by the story of the Good Samaritan who unselfishly assists a perfect stranger who had been robbed and left for dead. Helping someone just because they are a “some-one” and not a “some-thing” is the point of the message.

Like the evil mastermind, I fall into “despicable me-ism” on occasion. I can lapse into selfishness as easily as anyone else. Then I meet a “some-one” left for dead beside the road and I remember why I am here.

Blessings to you all,

Jerald

Blueberries

2011-02-12T04:35:00.000-08:00

Glimmers
February 11, 2011

"Can you stop and get soft taco shells?" she asked. I had called my wife as I do almost every day as I head home from work. Our grandson, Christian, won't eat hard taco shells so a trip to Publix was required.
I was passing by the dairy case, headed to the back of the store when I saw a distinguished-looking gentleman and recognized him as one whose mother had recently been in our hospital. I asked how she was doing and he told me the latest news. She is in a local rehab center and doing well and he hoped she could stay out of the hospital for a while. He thanked me for my interest and I proceeded in my aisle-wandering looking for soft taco shells, lost in the grocery store wilderness.

I turned down the back aisle of the store and headed toward produce, looking down each aisle as I went, looking for a clue to their location. In produce, an older woman with a kindly face was offering sample cups of blueberries to passing shoppers. “Would you like to try some blueberries?” she asked. Intent on my mission, I declined and quickly asked about soft taco shells. Before answering, she said, “I remember you.” “You stopped and sat down beside me at the hospital and asked me if I was ok.” I did remember. A few days earlier I was coming back from a walk through the Emergency Department and saw her sitting on the bench in front of the Diagnostic Imaging desk. Her eyes were red and she appeared worried. Her husband was back in CT scan she said and she was anxiously waiting for him. “I’m OK, really.” “Thanks for asking.”

“He has cancer,” she said, standing behind the little cups of blueberries. It saddened me to hear it and I told her so. We talked a bit more about her husband and then she called out to the tall man dressed in a Publix-green apron who was re-stocking packages of spring mix salads. He knew exactly where the soft taco shells were-aisle three, on the left.

What a weight to be carrying! Offering blueberries with a smile and at the same time her world was in such upheaval. I know there are more like her. All around us, patients and co-workers move through their day, crossing our paths. Some of them say “I’m fine” and they really are…today. And sometimes in the tone of voice or by a subtle facial expression they tell you a different truth. I know that I don’t always pick up on each one and you don’t either. The sweet lady behind the blueberries reminds me that when we do, they remember.
Blessings to you all,
Jerald
(Note: Though patient and wife are not named, I was given permission to share this story.)

Feed the Baby

2010-12-20T15:56:00.000-08:00

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

2010-12-18T04:58:00.000-08:00

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

Thanksgiving 2010

2010-11-24T16:13:00.000-08:00

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

On Being 55

2010-11-15T16:27:00.000-08:00

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

Blockin' and tacklin'

2010-10-15T13:04:00.000-07:00

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

Beware of Backdrafts

2010-10-03T16:53:00.000-07:00

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

3 Seconds

2010-09-05T16:28:00.000-07:00

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

Love is a Verb

2010-08-18T03:04:00.000-07:00

“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

Daytime dreams

2010-08-06T13:56:00.001-07:00

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

Fantasy and reality

2010-07-24T06:33:00.000-07:00

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

The Problem With Stereotypes

2010-06-30T02:51:00.000-07:00

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

Father's Day; A tribute to Ernest Ezell Rathbone

2010-06-17T14:13:00.000-07:00

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

Flashbacks

2010-06-03T14:47:00.000-07:00

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

My Stress-God's Problem

2010-05-06T14:47:00.000-07:00

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

Stress allergies

2010-04-27T15:02:00.000-07:00

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

The Hardest Question

2010-04-02T15:00:00.000-07:00

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

Moments

2010-03-12T14:51:00.000-08:00

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

Consider the Ant

2010-02-19T16:21:00.001-08:00

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

Fwd: Glimmers, Feb. 5, 2010

2010-02-05T15:27:00.001-08:00

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

Christmas 2009

2009-12-23T15:28:00.000-08:00

One of the truths of relationships is that a move toward someone, by risking self-disclosure, trusting them with a part of your life you share with trusted people, usually results in a corresponding move in your direction. I move toward you, you move toward me. If you move toward me, I am inclined to reciprocate. It is the basic stuff of human connectedness.

One November Saturday in 1979, I heard someone singing in the sanctuary of the Riverhills Church of God. At the time, I was teaching at Riverhills Christian School, operated by the church, in Tampa FL. I made a staggering $161.00 a week, if memory serves, and I worked part-time as the church janitor for some extra cash. That's why I was there on that Saturday.

I walked into the sanctuary through the side entrance, near the stage and I saw James Byrd, my pastor, sitting at the sound table in the back of the church. With earphones on, he was practicing his solo for the Christmas cantata, "His Love Reaching." I paused in my duties, unseen by the singer and listened to his clear baritone sing, "Love kept on longing, and Love kept on reaching, right past the shackles of my mind..." Believe me, it sounded wonderful.

I have thought of that moment and that song several times this week as I anticipate Christmas. Christmas is the story of God reaching for us, God coming to us, God with us. Emmanuel. Coming to us not because we were righteous, or good, or deserving, but because were weren't.

I meet people bound with skackles of their own everyday. You do too. It is easy to dismiss them, to catagorize them, to depersonalize them and dehumanize them. We can come up with all kinds of reasons why they may be entitled to healthcare, but not our care. But in my head I hear that song; Love longing...Love reaching. I am called to care, called to love. Christmas reminds me to move toward them, to reach out to them, to care for them and about them. That's what Love did. That's what Love does.

Merry Christmas

Jerald

The Gift of Light

2009-12-12T04:53:00.000-08:00

In the Pentecostal tradition, and indeed in many other conservative evangelical churches, there is an aversion to formal liturgy. "It has to come from the heart." "We don't need a program, we just let God have his way." But formal programs, liturgy and the experienced, powerful, presense of the Spirit are not mutually exclusive necessarily.

Having been powerfully influenced by spiriual spontaneity in the formation of my faith, I don't usally write out the prayers of invocation that I am often asked to do in my role as a hospital chaplain. Perhaps the only thing more powerful than this influence is my fear of making a fool of myself in front of a few thousand people. The latter won out and as I have for a few other "big" events" I wrote out a prayer of invocation for our hospital's annual Gift of Light celebration. I have not had such a reaction to a public prayer since I used the word "vicissitudes" in an invocation at my former place of employment seven or eight years ago. So, here it is.

Gift of Light 2009
Let us Pray.
Almighty God, who in beginning declared “Let there be light” we come to you.
O God who’s Light pierced the darkness and the darkness comprehended it not, we call out to you.
O Lord of Light, in whose presence no darkness dwells, we turn to you and humbly ask that you hear our prayer.
As in the beginning, Lord, where there is darkness, let there be Light.
In the darkness of hatred, let there be Light.
In the darkness of loneliness, let there be Light.
In the darkness of poverty, let there be Light.
In the darkness of sickness, let there be Light.
In the darkness of grief, let there be Light.
In the darkness of sin, let there be Light.
Indeed, God we pray above all else that in our own hearts, let there be Light. Let your Light shine, surround us with its glow and fill us with its love so that we become lights, dispelling the darkness.
This is our prayer. Amen.

Blessings to you all,

Jerald

Blessed With Needs

2009-12-08T04:03:00.000-08:00

Glimmers
December 4, 2009

“You say, 'I am rich; I have acquired wealth and do not need a thing.' But you do not realize that you are wretched, pitiful, poor, blind and naked.” (Rev. 3:17 NIV)

My Pastor, who I assert is wise well beyond his 35 years of age, is currently preaching a sermon series called “Blessed.” One of the points he made in his last sermon was that we have been blessed with needs. Blessed with needs? The very thought flies into the face of reason. Wouldn’t we be better blessed to be free of needs? Wouldn’t it be great to have no worries? Wouldn’t it be wonderful to be self-sufficient and need nothing from anyone and to have no one else who needed anything from us? HALLELUJAH! Actually, no it wouldn’t.

If you have seen the movie Castaway starring Tom Hanks, you will remember that he was the only survivor of a plane crash that left him alone on a small, remote island. He had learned how to fish, to provide his own shelter, and he learned how to make a fire to keep himself warm. He even learned how to be his own dentist! But he couldn’t learn how to live alone. His need for an “other” caused him to personify a volleyball and name it Wilson. Ultimately, his need for real companionship drove him to leave the island.

Needs, and our relentless pursuit to meet those gnawing, aching, longings are cleverly disguised blessings. They make us truly human. They drive us to one another, to giving and receiving, to blessing others and being blessed by them. They drive us to acts of compassion for others in need and inspire thanksgiving and gratitude for our own needs that have been met by the actions of others.

Strange as it may seem, having no needs is the greatest poverty of all.

Blessings to you all,

Jerald

Thanksgiving Edition

2009-11-21T04:55:00.000-08:00

Glimmers
November 20, 2009

"I thank my God every time I remember you..." (Phil. 1:3, NASV)

Last night my wife asked me to get the little pilgrim salt and pepper shakers, napkin holder and spoon rest from the top shelf of the cabinet above the oven. They are from the collection Publix supermarket used to sell, now discontinued, I'm sad to say. Thanksgiving preparations have begun in earnest at the Smith house.

That got me thinking about being thankful. As I began thinking this through on my morning walk, I thought about the farmer who got up at 4 a.m. to milk the cows that produced the milk I put in my morning coffee. Our society is so removed from the production of the things we use everyday, I’ll bet there are people who don’t even know milk comes from cows. Some people are so confused about it they think the chicken in those Chick-fil-A commercials comes from those Holsteins carrying the sign, “Eat mor chikn.” But chicken doesn’t come from cows, beef does. And besides, those are DAIRY cows. Hello!

This ignorance about where things come from is boldly displayed at the fast food restaurants that proclaim their burgers are from “100% Angus beef.”Angus cows are just beef cows with black hair. I suspect the beef from red Santa Gertrudis or gray Brahman or white Charolais cows is just as good, they just need better marketing. But I digress. The point is how many things have you used today that someone else worked very hard to produce? How many others gave their time and expertise in the doing of their jobs so that you could do yours? At the risk of missing some of the hundreds of people involved, allow me to illustrate. I’ll begin with arriving at work this morning, just to keep it simple.

I parked my car and before I could lock the doors, a volunteer driving the shuttle arrived and asked if I needed a ride. I noticed the grounds were neatly trimmed, thanks guys! The South entrance door opened automatically, thank you Business Office for paying FPL. Thank you to HIS for coding the procedures so the Business Office could bill for them to receive payment so we could pay FPL. I saw clean floors because environmental services had worked hard overnight to scrub, polish and vacuum them. I unlocked the door to my office and turned on my computer. Thank you Information Systems! I took the daily census and referrals off the printer to start planning my day. Admitting, nursing, and clinical informatics all had a hand in that. So many people to thank already and I had barely begun the day!

Now think about your job. Who ordered the gloves, prepared the meds, cooked the food, restocked linens, mopped the floors, drew the labs, took the Xrays, did the surgery, filed the reports, input the data, delivered the meals, transported the patient from the OR, and…well I think you get the picture. We all have hundreds of others to thank for their contributions to our being able to do our jobs.

Between now and Thanksgiving Day, how about telling some of them thanks for doing what they do so you have the opportunity to do what you do. And remember, as my minister likes to say, “Teamwork makes the dream work.”

Happy Thanksgiving!

Jerald

Seeing the invisible

2009-10-22T16:34:00.000-07:00

Glimmers
October 22, 2009

“It was by faith that Moses left the land of Egypt, not fearing the king’s anger. He kept right on going because he kept his eyes on the one who is invisible.” Hebrews 11:27 (NLT)

It is funny how one thought leads to another, then another and another. Sometimes I try to stop where I am in the thinking process and retrace the mental steps that led me to the current thought. The caboose on today’s thought train was the George Strait song “I Saw God Today.”

Just walked down the street to the coffee shop
Had to take a break
I’d been by her side for eighteen hours straight

Saw a flower growin’ in the middle of the sidewalk
Pushin’ up through the concrete
Like it was planted right there for me to see

The flashin’ lights, the honkin’ horns
All seemed to fade away

In the shadow of that hospital at 5:08
I saw God today (Rodney Clawson; Monty Criswell; Wade Kirby)

I got to George Strait’s song from a prior thought I read in Philip Yancey's book, Prayer. Yancey said as he looks for God in the everydayness of life, “aha” moments “catch me by surprise: a surge of gratitude, a pang of compassion. But they catch me, I have learned, only when I am looking for them,” (Prayer, p. 183).

I have come to believe we can indeed see the One “who is invisible.” I know it is subjective and not objective and that my “seeing” is an act of faith, an interpretation of what I see. In this hospital, I get glimpses of God from time to time.Yesterday I saw God in the face mother’s grief, a young woman’s heart for soldiers far from home, a co-worker’s courage in the face of illness, a volunteer’s determination to be God’s loving presence for a difficult patient and a housekeeper who is as gracious as her name.

What do you see?

Blessings to you all,

Jerald

Holding on-letting go

2009-10-09T16:43:00.000-07:00

Glimmers
October 9, 2009

“Love must be sincere. Hate what is evil; cling to what is good.” Romans 12:9

The car was packed with all my earthly possessions and I was anxious to get on the road to my new life in Tampa, FL. I had spent the summer after college graduation in Atlanta working as a desk clerk for the Holiday Inn on I 20 East. A new job, new apartment, new city and new life were waiting and I could wait no longer. My Mother came out of the house carrying a box. “Here, this belonged to your Daddy.” My Dad had died ten years earlier when I was twelve. Inside the box was a gray Bradford cowboy hat. I took it with me to Tampa and to everywhere else I have lived ever since. I could not think of parting with it, even though I never wear it. Well, I did wear it once, but only for a sermon illustration. I look rather goofy in a cowboy hat. It is one of the few possessions I have that belonged to him and it helps me feel connected to him in a tangible kind of way. I can take it out of the box, look at it, touch it and it helps me to remember.

I also remember a Thanksgiving years ago, how many I am not sure, when my Mom placed the turkey on the table, picked up her J. C. Penney electric knife and said, “How ‘bout you carve the turkey.” To me, it was a passage, an invitation to adulthood. After her death in 2001, it was the only thing that belonged to her that I really wanted. I still have it. It still works perfectly and through it, she is present with us at every Thanksgiving and Christmas.

As with most people, I don’t like all the things my parents gave me. All the memories are not good. My parents were imperfect. I give them credit. They did the best they could. But some of their ways were not emotionally healthy and I struggle to relate to those I love in better ways than those I learned growing up. Struggle is the right word because it is just that. Choosing differently takes some work.

Believe it or not, the holidays are just around the corner. Memories will fill the air along with the aromas of the holiday feast and the carols. Some of your memories may be painful. Some things you may not wish to carry forward with you as you go. Some things you couldn’t possibly part with. We get to choose what we want to keep and what we want to let go. Let go of the hurts and disappointments. Like my parents, your loved ones were human too. Forgive them if you need to. Forgive yourself if you need to. But hold on to the good stuff.

Blessings to you all,

Jerald

The Night People

2009-09-25T16:12:00.000-07:00

Reply |Smith, Jerald
show details 12:35 PM (6 hours ago)

Glimmers
September 24, 2009
11:01 p.m.

Night people are different. I don’t know if they are different inherently, or psychologically, or if it is the night schedule that makes them seem one-off. They live in an out of synch world. Most people, including those in their own families, are Day People. Normal People. Some Night People work days too and only have to work nights every once in a while. Some of them work nights all the time because they have to for reasons of job availability, or because of sharing child rearing duties with their spouse. Some do it because they want to. For the life of me, I can’t understand the latter group. It’s only 11:00 p.m. and I feel like a zombie.

I grab the bag full of candy bars, gum, M&Ms and lifesavers and become a one-man rounding team. Rounding is a fun way to interact with hospital staff, give them a treat and leave them with a smile. The night people are surprised to see me. “What are you doing here this late?” or some variation thereof. “I came to hang out with my night peeps,” I say. They laugh because it sounds so un-cool when I say it. But they laugh. Laughter seems to come easily to the Night People. There is a sort of camaraderie among them. Kind of like that of frat boys who survived the hazing or soldiers who went through boot camp together. “We’re strong, we’re invincible. We’re the Night People.” “I’m here for the third shift dinner at 2,” I say. “Don’t forget.” The thought of hot food, freshly prepared, brings a smile.

The hospital is a different place at night. Some strange sort of alchemy transforms the daytime hustle and bustle, generalized and sometimes frenetic, to islands of busyness surrounded by an ocean of calm. Our four-story atrium, Grand Central during the day, is an empty cavern. Someone is in radiology. They have to be. But they are out of public view at the moment. There are no patients being transported from hospital rooms to procedures in nuke med, CAT scan or MRI. Most patients are sleeping or watching TV as I glance in the rooms . The pace of testing and procedures has slowed for now. Except for the Emergency Department. It keeps on humming and it keeps the machines humming too.

In a few hours the early morning labs will begin, heralding the coming dawn. Shifts will change and the Day People, in synch with their natural circadian rhythms, will take the helm once more.

So here’s to the Night People. Black out the windows. Pull up the covers. Get some sleep. We’re going to need you again in a few hours. And thanks.

Blessings to you all,

Jerald

That "Newbie" Feeling

2009-09-10T17:01:00.001-07:00

Glimmers
September 10, 2009

In his book, "A Complaint-Free World", Will Bowen observes that there is a four-step process to learning any new skill. The first is unconscious incompetence, the second is conscious incompetence, the third is conscious competence and finally, unconscious competence.

It has been a long time since I felt really incompetent. What about you? I got reacquainted with the feeling in June. As I mentioned in the Glimmers dated May 27, I enrolled in an Aikido class. I had seen the Sensei, Allen Drysdale, demonstrate some self-defense techniques to a meeting I attended and it piqued my interest. Over a year later, I acted on it and signed up.

I arrived early for my first Saturday morning class, excited and a bit nervous. I had no idea what awaited me. Other class members arrived, began donning their outfits. Later I learned the outfit is called a “Gi.” Over their gi’s, they put on some black pant-like things with baggy legs that made them look almost like long skirts. I later learned these are called “ hakimas.” I heard lots of other foreign terms that day as the Sensei would name and then demonstrate holds and throws. I figured that sooner or later, by brain and my tongue would figure out how to say the words. What I didn’t figure on was that my body would be such a slow learner!

I learned early that first day that learning how to fall and roll would be very important. There are two different kinds of rolls. The back roll is done by tucking one leg behind the other, sitting on your butt on the same side as the tucked leg, and then rolling backwards over the opposite shoulder. I observed the more-experienced class members do it and then gave it a try. Somehow, what I saw with my eyes and communicated to my body to emulate got horribly scrambled in the process. It was totally embarrassing. OK, I thought, let’s try that other roll. The front shoulder roll is performed by placing one foot forward, bending over, curving your same side arm and shoulder back toward your feet so that your fingers are pointed toward your toes. Then you simply roll forward over the shoulder, the opposite hip, and return to a standing position. Simple, right? Again, my body betrayed me. I rolled sideways, like a log or barrel rolling down a hill. I tried it multiple times with the same result. No amount of instruction produced a proper result. It was ugly.

How, I thought, am I ever going to be able to do Aikido if I can’t do these basic moves, seemingly as simple as a child’s somersault! It did not help that there was this older guy there who appeared so normal, but when he began his Aikido moves he was so smooth, I promise, he floated on air.

In the following weeks, I thought about quitting several times. After my back seized up one week, I entertained the hope that I could blame my quitting on my aching back. “I’m not an awkward, uncoordinated quitter, I just have a bad back.” But it got better.

Sensei and more experienced classmates encouraged me. “The only way you won’t get better at Aikido is to die or stop coming,” he said. I could go along with the bad back idea, but dying? No. So I continued. Now, three months later,the rolls are coming along, the moves are becoming easier to do, and soon I’ll be ready to test for the next level.

Next time I have a new cashier at the grocery store and I start to roll my eyes because it is taking so long, I pray I have the good sense to remember how difficult learning new things can be. “New job?” “Hang in there.” “You’re doing fine.”

Blessings to you all,

Jerald

Betty's Legacy

2009-09-04T13:56:00.000-07:00

Last Tuesday I was supposed to present a talk on Family Systems to our Space Coast Grief Education Alliance. I am the current vice-president of this multi-disciplinary organization. Our mission is providing education and support to those who are grieving.

I was unable to present because of the death of Betty Wilder, my sister’s mother-in-law. I received the news Sunday morning, worked most of Monday and then drove up to Tallahassee for the viewing and service. Had I been able to present my talk, among the things I would have talked about is family legacies.

In Contextual Family Theory, legacies are like strings that connect across generations. The behaviors and beliefs of preceding generations tug on the generation connected at the other end. Legacies can be positive or negative. With my talk preparations in my head, I listened and looked for those connecting strings.

There was a string of faith. Faith in God was central to Betty’s life, as it had been in her parents’ lives. There was another string of family connectedness. Thanksgiving Day gatherings at her mother's, Granny Goins, home could easily bring upwards of 75 family members together for dinner. But the string (legacy) that I heard most about was love.

Her nephew by marriage, Rev. Scott Kilgore, gave the eulogy. He talked about what a good cook Betty was, and she really was a great cook. Once he asked her, “Aunt Betty, why does everything taste better at your house?” She paused for a moment and said, “Because I cook with love.” She wasn’t kidding. He went on to talk about the other ways Betty infused what she did with love. I watched the family as he talked. I saw lots of heads nodding and smiling. It rang true with me, too. I had known Betty Wilder since I was seventeen.

At the conclusion of his message, Rev. Kilgore challenged us. He said, “All of you are here because you have been touched by Betty’s love.” “I challenge you today to pass that on.” “Don’t keep that to yourself, take the love you received from Betty and pass it on.”

Love. It is a good legacy to pass along. Besides, I couldn’t cook like her, even if I tried.

Blessings to you all,

Jerald

Mortality Bites

2009-08-29T04:47:00.000-07:00

How can two people who are in the same circumstances in the same hospital be in such very different places? She is sad, anxious, grieving the loss of independence and staring into her own mortality, frightened. He is calm, serene, at peace and says, “You just have got to expect it.” She has outlived two husbands. He has outlived one wife. Both are over eighty. Both are people of faith. So what’s the difference? He has had more time to process things.

His illness has been a gradual decline toward death lasting several years. Her illness has been more sudden. Up to now, she has enjoyed good health. Illness has been his companion for a while. She has a lot of catching up to do to be where he is. He has a head start. I don’t expect her to be at the same place. She’ll get there. I know it. And so does she.

Sometimes being a chaplain just isn’t much fun. It is hard to walk with others who are being pressed in by the narrowing of life, facing their own mortality, without facing my own. Though I am well past the middle point of my life, I still want to believe I’m never going to die. Or at least not think about it today.

Blessings to you all,

Jerald

Miracle Tuesday

2009-08-21T14:18:00.000-07:00

Glimmers
August 21, 2009

As often happens, one scene evoked the memory of another. On Facebook this past Tuesday, I wrote the following; “I walked past room 307 and smiled. The man’s chances of ever leaving the hospital were slim. His son kept saying, ‘every day is a miracle.’ Today was no exception.”

The family in question hails from a Southern state and they are only here part of the year. While here, he had fallen gravely ill and recovery was very doubtful. When I first met them in the ICU, one of his sons and a brother-in-law were keeping vigil by his side. “It’s miracle Monday,” the son said with that Southern drawl. “The doctor said if he made it 24 hours, he might have a chance.” “We’re past that.” “Every day is a miracle.” The certainty of his faith lifted mine. It was not the first time that had happened.

As a chaplain resident at the University of Tennessee Medical Center in Knoxville, I was responsible for covering the Emergency Department when on-call. On one such night, the trauma pager went off and I reported to the ED to find out what was happening. I read the board and learned a man had been buried as a ditch had caved in and he was being flown in from Sevier County.

The flight team was administering chest compressions and bagging (breathing for) the patient as they wheeled him into the trauma room. He was not responding. They opened his chest, fluid gushed out and I watched as the physician wrapped his hand around the man’s heart and began squeezing it. To my amazement, it responded.

Shortly thereafter, I met some family and the man’s construction supervisor in a room next the to main ED waiting room. The physician who had accompanied me to report on the man’s progress said, “This is the chaplain.” “He’ll pray with you.” Before I could even take offense at his clumsy and simplistic description of my role, the construction supervisor took over. Covered with dirt from digging his friend and co-worker out of the ditch, his tall frame collapsed to the floor as he began to pray. It was simple, child-like and deeply moving. “I can’t add anything to that except Amen,” I said. A few days later, his once-dead friend was released from the hospital. It was the first time I had witnessed anything close to a miracle. The last one was miracle Tuesday.

Blessings to you all,

Jerald

Be Good To Yourself!

2009-08-12T14:30:00.000-07:00

Reverend David Gant, my pastor’s grandfather, is in his mid 80’s. He is one of those persons about whom the more you know, the more you want to know. He has a beaming smile, a gentle disposition and is always ready with an encouraging word. What he hasn’t had is an easy life.

His wife, who died last year, spent the last few years of her life suffering from Alzheimer’s syndrome. Rev. Gant was faithful to the end. He would go to the nursing home to see her three times a day to feed her breakfast, lunch and dinner. I have a vivid memory of talking with Rev. Gant after morning worship about five years ago. “How are you?” I asked. “I’m great this morning,” he replied. “I went to see my wife this morning to feed her breakfast and she remembered who I was.”

This past Sunday, he greeted everyone coming in for worship and gave us that great smile, a handshake and a blue slip of paper. I have read it a dozen or more times since. I have no idea of the original source, so I can’t give due credit, but it is worth sharing.

BE GOOD TO YOURSELF

Be Yourself…Truthfully
Accept Yourself…Gratefully
Value Yourself…Joyfully
Forgive Yourself…Completely
Treat Yourself…Generously
Balance Yourself…Harmoniously
Bless Yourself…Abundantly
Trust Yourself…Confidently
Love Yourself…Wholeheartedly
Empower Yourself…Prayerfully
Give Yourself…Enthusiastically
Express Yourself…Radiantly

Our work in healthcare is always demanding and sometimes draining. Self-care is not an option. It is a requirement. Be good to yourself. You have my permission.

Blessings to you all,

Confession of a Worrier

2009-08-01T14:20:00.000-07:00

Glimmers
July 31, 2009

“I will never fail you. I will never abandon you.”( Joshua 1:5, Hebrews 13:5)

I am a worrier. There, I said it. I have heard all the reasons why a person of faith shouldn’t worry. I even have a little poem I memorized from a sermon I preached twenty years ago about worry; “Worry never climbed a hill, worry never paid a bill, worry never led a horse to water, worry never did a thing you’d think it oughta.” And still I worry.

I used to worry if I’d get a job when I finished college. Then I worried about finding someone to share my life with me. I worried about our children (well, I still worry about them-the hazards of being a parent) and I have worried over my career. Now, I worry about retirement a lot. Will I be healthy enough to enjoy it? Will I have enough money?

I remember a corny joke, the kind that’s safe for preachers to tell from the pulpit, about worry. As the plane ascended the airline hostess noticed the man gripping the armrests of his seat so tightly that his knuckles were white. And so was his collar. “Reverend, why are you so afraid?” she asked. “ Doesn’t the Bible say ‘I am with you always?’” Tightening his grip, he looked up at her and said, “NO!” “It says ‘LO I am with you always!’”

In the last Glimmers, I talked about The Shack, written by Wm. Paul Young and how the statement “if anything matters, everything matters” had been such an encouragement to me. Another passage in the book caused me to smile and repent in quick succession. Jesus is talking to Mack and says, “Mack, do you realize that your imagination of the future, which is almost always dictated by fear of some kind, rarely, if ever, pictures me with you”(p. 144).

Ouch.

Blessings to you all,

Jerald

It all matters

2009-07-23T15:59:00.000-07:00

Glimmers
July 23, 2009

Vacations are prime reading times for me. I usually pick up a book or two and knock them out in pretty short order. I read “Stone Cold” by David Baldacci. It is a political thriller set in Washington and, as usual, Baldacci was highly entertaining. Then I did something I don’t recall doing with any other book. I read The Shack by Wm Paul Young for the third time. Once I have read a book, I rarely have the urge to read it again. But I like so many things about this book; how it depicts the relationality of God, how it handles questions of meaning like, “If God loves me so much, why is my life such a mess?” or “If God has any power at all, how could he have allowed this to happen?” or “Does anything I do really matter?”

When I was a local church pastor, I sometimes thought about how great it would be to be a carpenter, or brick mason, or a mechanic. So much of what I did produced no immediately obvious results. How nice it would be to able to see the walls I had built go up or hear the engine I had tuned purring perfectly. “Does what I do matter,” I wondered. I suspect you have wondered that too at times, maybe even today. But then someone would wait for me at the church door and say, “Thank you, Pastor.” “That was just what I needed.”

In The Shack, Mack, the lead character asks that same cosmic question. “Is what I do back home important?” “Does it matter?” I love the reply. “If anything matters, everything matters.” “Because you are important, everything you do is important.” “Every time you forgive, the universe changes; every time you reach out and touch a heart or a life, the world changes; with every kindness and service, seen or unseen, my purposes are accomplished and nothing will ever be the same again,”( p. 237).

It is the purest of logic. It is the simplest of statements. It is the deepest of truths. If anything matters, you matter.

Blessings to you all,

Jerald

Thoughts of Yolanda

2009-06-15T18:41:00.000-07:00

Thoughts of Yolanda

(A week ago today, Yolanda Garvin Williams was killed in the parking lot of Parrish Medical Center, the hospital where I work. She was gunned down by her husband, whom she'd left a month earlier after years of abuse.)

I asked the man in the bass boat if the island before me in the St. Johns River was Hontoon Island. “No,” he said. “It’s about three miles downstream.” “You’ll see a pier in the water.” I paddled on.

I had loaded my kayak on top of my Escape at 6 am. I swung through MacDonalds for a sausage and egg biscuit on my way out of town. I washed it down with coffee from my orange and black mug emblazoned with the big orange T as I headed for Orange City. I remembered that my sister, Jackie, had said that the stretch of river between Blue Spring and Hontoon Island was pretty and I was looking forward to quiet morning of introspection and renewal.

When I arrived at Orange City, I turned left on French Avenue and proceeded past the entrance to Blue Spring, toward the river. The road turned to dirt, took a sharp dog-leg to the left and then opened up to a boat ramp and parking area. There were only two other vehicles there and they appeared to belong to a couple of guys fishing from the bank. After launching out into the River, I spotted the man in the bass boat.

Heading downstream toward Hontoon Island, the air was heavy and the temperature was already above 80 and it wasn’t even 8 am. The sunlight filtered through the cypress trees along the river to my right and lit up the opposite bank. In short order, I spotted an osprey in the top of a tall cypress, a great blue heron on a fallen tree trunk, and a good sized alligator lazily swimming across the river in front of me from left to right. As I got a little closer, the gator sank beneath the dark water, leaving nary a ripple.

I reached Hontoon Island about 9:30. I beached the kayak and stretched my legs a bit, taking the opportunity to munch on some peanut butter crackers and down a cold bottle of water. I explored a large lagoon to the South of the island before heading back upstream. I wanted to be out of the water about noon, before the temperature hit the 90’s and before any storms developed.

As I rounded the turn back into the main channel, I got a chuckle from a small gator that started to surface near my boat. The quiet shadow of my boat must have startled it as it swam below. It turned about quickly with a loud splash and surfaced again about twenty feet in front of my boat, swimming for all it was worth.

Heading back upstream, I hugged the left bank trying to catch some shade from the trees. The air was filled with croaking frogs, grunting gators and singing birds, as it had been since I set out three hours earlier. Then, behind me, off to the left, far out into the swamp beyond the river, came the deep call of an owl. I coasted noiselessly for a bit till the oncoming current almost brought me to a full stop. The picture of Yolanda flashing that million-dollar smile suddenly filled the screen in my head as it had the screen in the church last Saturday.

Peace. Like a river. At last. Amen.

Jerald

2009-06-03T14:31:00.000-07:00

Glimmers
June 3, 2009

Dear friends, let us love one another, for love comes from God. Everyone who loves has been born of God and knows God. Whoever does not love does not know God, because God is love. (I John 4: 7-8, NIV)

My grandson, Evan Joshua Conti, laughs in his sleep. I mentioned this to Eileen, our lactation consultant here at Parrish Medical Center and she said, “He must be a happy baby.” That he is. At a little over one month old, he has had the blessed good fortune of being born to two loving parents and is reaping a legacy of love from their two extended families.

Huey Lewis and the News recorded a song, “The Power of Love,” that begins like this;

The power of love is a curious thing,
Make a one man weep, make another man sing.
Change a heart to a little white dove,
More than a feeling, that’s the power of love

Evan already responds to love. Because of love, his brain is making all kinds of connections that will enable him to love and be loved. But even more fundamental than that, these connections will enable him to be fully human.

Yesterday, I heard a counselor talk about the research being done on attachment disorders. Attachment disorders occur when babies don’t experience love consistently during their first three years of life. It doesn’t just affect their ability to love. It can affect the ability to process information, the ability to understand language, the ability to comfort and soothe one’s self, the ability to control impulses and the ability to make appropriate connections with others. Love really is powerful stuff.

Don’t need money, don’t take fame
Don’t need no credit card to ride this train
It’s strong and its sudden and it’s cruel sometimes
But it might just save your life
That’s the power of love.

It can even make you laugh in your sleep.

Blessings to you all,

Jerald

Get out of that rut!

2009-05-27T17:19:00.000-07:00

Glimmers

May 27, 2009

“Through some moment of beauty or pain, some sudden turning of our lives, we catch glimmers of at least what the saints are blinded by…” (Frederick Buechner, Listening To Your Life, p. 169)

Rut n. 1. A sunken track or groove made by the passage of vehicles. 2. A habitual, or unvaried way of living or acting.

I am a creature of habit. You probably are as well. My morning routines are, well, routine. I awake to either the coffee pot at 5:27 or the alarm at 5:30. I feed the cats, get coffee for my wife and myself. I do some reading, take a walk, exercise a bit and get ready for work. I drive to work and park in the same parking space almost every day. When I do park in a different spot I will most likely walk past my car in the afternoon, headed for where it usually is parked. Lately, as I alluded to in my last Glimmers, I’ve been in a rut.

Even the most exciting things can become routine as you repeat them over and over in the same way. They can become unconscious activities performed with all the animation of a creature from Night of the Living Dead. Ruts are comfortable. And that’s the problem. It has been said that a rut is just a grave with both ends knocked out. Ruts rob life of excitement. To maintain our sanity and joy, I think we need to be challenged and stretched every now and then. So if you’re tired of the “same old, same old,” break out! Take a class in dancing, photography, ancient history, or Aikido (like me). Visit a state park you’ve never seen. Or, horror of horrors, sit in a different seat at worship! Doing something new, or doing something you do often in a different way, can change your perspective and restore some lost joy to your life.

Blessings to you all,

Jerald

Because I have to!

2009-05-16T05:17:00.000-07:00

"Whatever you do, work at it with all your heart, as working for the Lord, not for men,since you know that you will receive an inheritance from the Lord as a reward."
(Paul, Colossians 3:23-24)

People say they enjoy Glimmers and I say that I enjoy writing them. At least half of that statement has not been true lately. The last half. The frequency of my Glimmers posts have declined markedly. In reflecting on the "why," I came across this passage in Colossians. It is all about the motivation, the "heart" reasons for our actions.

My motivation for Glimmers has gotten skewed. It has become a task on my calendar. My calendar alarm pops up and says "Glimmers" and I resent it. It has fallen into the "your term paper is due on Wednesday" trap. I have been reduced from doing it because I want to, to doing it because I have to and because other people expect me to. How sad! No wonder I can't find any inspiration.

Why do we do what we do? Why do we work? Because we want to, or because we have to? Why do we give healing and compassionate care to our patients? Because we want to, or because we have to? Or do we do it as Erie Chapman suggests, because that's our "Mother" in that bed?

So I'm taking Glimmers of my "to do" list. My calendar won't bug me to get it done. We'll see what happens. If I were a betting man, I'm not, but if I were, I'd bet that I'm about to make a scientific discovery about the brain. I strongly suspect that the distance in my mind between "have to" and "want to" is one synapse.

Blessings to you all,

Jerald

Welcome to my country!

2009-05-01T19:15:00.000-07:00

This past Tuesday I attended the 16th Annual Hospice Foundation of America Teleconference. The topic this year was “Diversity and End of Life Care.” It was well done, informative and helpful. It emphasized the importance of respect for cultures other than our own and encouraged curiosity. It recommended inviting others to be our teachers about how they understand the world, their illness, and how they make meaning of it all. It was good advice.

As I often do with such things, I went off on a couple of tangents from the original intent of the teleconference. First I reflected on my own family system. All three of my daughters have now married. Accepting and welcoming new members to the family is an intentional exercise in cross-cultural communication.

My sons-in -law all come from differing family cultures and regional cultures and it has sometimes seemed as if they are aliens from a foreign country. Jessie’s husband, Josh, is a prime example. Every now and then he comes out with something that causes me to shake me head and go “What?”

Josh is as good-hearted a person as you’ll ever meet. He is American, Caucasian, Christian, and English speaking so you’d think understanding him should be easy for me. It is, most of the time. But every now and then, I just don’t get him. The same is true of the other sons-in-law to varying degrees.

The teleconference gave me an idea. What if I thought of Josh as someone from a foreign country? Then I wouldn’t be surprised when I didn’t get something he said or did that seemed foreign to me, but was in alignment with his regional and family culture. He is, after all, from New Hampshire. It’s like a foreign country. I told him when he did or said something that seemed odd to me, I’d say, “He’s frum the Noth, he cain’t hep it!” We all laughed. But he got it. Later in the conversation, he said “Well, in my country…” and the laughter started again.

Reflecting further, I think there are striking similarities to adding new family members and adding new members to our Parrish Medical Center team. We too have a distinct culture that may be foreign to some. Helping them understand it and become acclimated to it is an exercise in cultural competence. It requires respect and curiosity from us all. Accepting new family members as family is a sign of good family health, at home, and at work. So the next time you have the opportunity to welcome someone to your family, or to your work team, you could say, “Welcome to my country!”

Blessings to you all,

Jerald

Icebergs

2009-04-10T12:45:00.000-07:00

Larry Kelly is an Air Force veteran. For twenty years he taught small arms tactics to Air Force recruits. In retirement, he continues to serve the Air Force as a civilian counselor. I heard him speak last Tuesday about the kinds of issues facing those he works with at Patrick Air Force Base. He talked about the stresses of deployment, divorce, risk-taking and thrill-seeking behaviors, and the high rate of suicide. He is evidence that the military takes these things very seriously and is seriously trying to address them.

Larry gave us a handout with a picture of an iceberg on it. He said, “Before we started surveying the base population, we thought we knew what kinds of problems we were dealing with, but after the survey, we realized we didn’t know the half of it.” He said it is like the iceberg in the picture. You only see the one-third that is above the surface. It is the weight and mass below the surface, out of sight, that is so dangerous.

The people that I work with, the people in our hospital, the people in my own family…and yes, even I, have so much stuff below the surface that remains invisible to most who see us. We’re all icebergs. But we better let somebody see it. We’d better process it somewhere with someone we trust. If not, even the Titanic is not safe.

Easter Blessings,

Jerald

My Daughter's Wedding

2009-03-26T13:37:00.000-07:00

Glimmers
March 26, 2009

“The steadfast love of the LORD never ceases, his mercies never come to an end; they are new every morning; great is your faithfulness.” (Lamentations 3:22,23 NRSV)

I have no idea how many wedding ceremonies I have done. All have been a privilege for me. Ministry has its perks. The best perk of all is that I have been the minister for my own daughters’ weddings. The last of the three, my youngest, is to be married this weekend.

I have often been asked as a minister/father how I could do both. “How does it feel to give your daughter away?” “How can you do the ceremony without losing it?” I can tell you that I wondered myself.

Candace, the middle one, was the test case. Any doubts I had about relinquishing her to the love of another disappeared as I stood at the end of the aisle. At her wedding, at the wedding of her sister, Jessie, and now with Amanda, it was all about the person at the other end of the aisle. I wondered, “Does he love her as much as I do?” “Can he be trusted to care for her, to defend her, to protect her and to put up with the peculiar quirks that so endeared her to me?” In each case I have been able to say yes to those questions and have thus far found my trust well placed.

Their lives, and my own, will take many twists and turns in the years ahead. Who can predict what will come? Death and taxes may be certain in life. Few other things are.

Thomas Obediah Chisholm, the one who wrote the lyrics for the classic hymn “Great Is Thy Faithfulness,” battled the ups and downs of uncertain health most of his life. The only thing constant about his health was that it was constantly changing. That uncertainty drew him to Lamentations 3:22-23, and that inspired the lyrics to the now famous hymn. There he found “strength for today and bright hope for tomorrow.”

So as we round the turn and come to the end of the aisle, I’ll let go. He’ll take her hand. We’ll recite ancient and holy words and send them off into uncertainty. I can do so with confidence because of some other ancient words that once inspired a man named Thomas Chisholm. I trust those most of all.

Blessings to you all,

Jerald

Make a bid!

2009-03-16T16:58:00.000-07:00

My first experience at an auction was as a boy at the Bradford County fair in Starke, Florida. The auctioneer was selling steers that had been raised by kids in the Future Farmers of America (FFA). I remember thinking how foreign the language sounded and wondering how anyone could spit words out so quickly. He called for bids, acknowledged bids and challenged the bidders to ante up higher and higher until he said “Sold!”

In their book, The Relationship Cure , authors John Gottman and Joan DeClaire talk about relational bids. These are efforts to connect with others. We all make them, these bids, with a look, a smile, a greeting or a comment that invites others to connect with us. Dr. Gottman speaks about three possible responses to bids and the differences those responses can make in a relationship. Take the simple question, “Would you like to have dinner with me?” Turning toward looks like this. “I’d love to, thanks.” Or, “That’s a nice invitation, but I can’t. I have to get home to my boyfriend.” Turning away is illustrated by, “No. Sorry, I’m busy.” And turning against by, “No, I’m cleaning the lint out of my dryer tonight" (p. 55).

The different responses show varying levels of regard toward the other. Turning toward shows a highly positive regard. Turning away is less positive and bordering on indifference. Turning against is negative and moving toward hostility.

Dr. Gottman’s research with hundreds of married couples revealed that in couples headed for divorce, men turned away or against their spouse’s bids 82% of the time and women did so 50% of the time. In happily married couples the numbers were 19% of the time for men and 14% of the time for women (p. 4). Dr. Gottman observed that when people received consistently negative responses to their bids, they quickly gave up trying and the relationship deteriorated rapidly.

This bidding process doesn’t just happen between couples. We make bids and receive bids from co-workers too. Patients bid for caregivers’ attention with call lights, questions and facial expressions.

Right now, somewhere, someone is making a bid to you, bidding for your attention or care. Which response will you choose?

Blessings to you all,

Jerald

Don't forget the love

2009-03-05T15:43:00.001-08:00

Glimmers,

March 5, 2009

My Uncle, Ike Smith of Chattanooga, TN, is in his mid 80s now. From the time my father died in 1968 till now, he has been my link to my father. I learned what I know of my father’s early life from him. I would never have known about my father’s crazy motorcycle wreck on that dark, South Georgia dirt road were it not for him, or how crazy in love my parents were in the early days of their marriage.

Uncle Ike is a retired elementary school principal. His wife, Alice, died almost two years ago. Uncle Ike has been in church his whole life. He has held just about every position one could hold in a local church, except Pastor. I spoke to him by phone yesterday. He asked about the family, “How are those girls?” “And your son-in-law, is he in Iraq or is he home?” I assured him all is well, that Chris is back home and I updated him about the upcoming wedding of my youngest and the baby on the way for my oldest.

He talked about his health. He said he is doing well, getting out some, to the doctors and church mostly. The last time I saw him, he shuffled as he walked in a way that reminds me of the Tim Conway character I used to love to see on the Carol Burnett show. He said that he couldn’t keep up with things around the house like he used to, so he has just had to accept it and let some things go. For someone whose house always looked like a page out of Southern Living, it is no small feat.

But as he usually does, he left me with something thought provoking. He said someone asked him why he went to the City Church and not some other. He said, “I told them I don’t go because of the minister and I don’t go because of the music.” “I don’t go to hear him, necessarily, or to hear the choir.” “I go because they love me.” He continued to explain. “When I get there, they tell me how glad they are to see me. Those big ol’ men hug me and they help me to my seat.” “When they wrap me up in those arms, I feel just like a little child that is loved.” “I go there because they love me.”

I suspect that is why most people go where they do. When they come here, let’s not forget the love.

Blessings to you all,

Jerald

Past is Prologue

2009-02-24T03:28:00.000-08:00

Past is prologue, so they say. I got in touch with some of my past this week. I joined the Facebook world. One of my "friends" on Facebook warned me by writing on my wall, "be careful, this stuff is addictive." I understand already.

Facebook begins with a profile that you create and then, based on that profile, magically begins connecting you with others whom you may choose to add as friends. I am now connected with Bob in Bountiful, UT, who I always knew as Bobby from Lee University. He now has a beautiful family in Bountiful. I am also connected with Pam in Memphis. I used to be her Pastor at the Piney Grove Church of God in Selmer, Tennessee when she was but a teen and I still remember the day she drove her first car to church.

As I see their faces, my past comes rushing back to the present. Good times, and some not so good, but the not so good ones are harder to remember. A trick, or perhaps a defense mechanism of our psyche. But what I do know is that they are a part of me. These friends with whom Facebook restores connection helped to shape me into who I am, the good times and the not so good. In all of it, and through all of them, God was and is at work to give shape to my life. Thanks, Friends.

Blessings to you all,

Glimmerman

Callouses

2009-02-07T11:44:00.000-08:00

Two voices have spoken to my life this week. Rather, I should say one Voice has spoken to me this week through two instruments. One is an elder statesman, the other a minister in the dawn of his ministerial journey. Both delivered the same message. A message I needed to hear; that we all need to hear.

Dr. Robert Crick began his journey as a chaplain in the 1960’s. He was an airborne chaplain in the Army. A role that combined sacraments, marriage counseling, preaching, and jumping out of perfectly good airplanes in some of the hottest hot zones of the Vietnam War. He became the first Pentecostal Clinical Pastoral Supervisor in the Association for Clinical Pastoral Education in a day when many considered Pentecostals as victims of some kind of pathology. Since the end of his military career, he has been the Director of the Church of God Chaplains Commission, my endorsing agency in the field of chaplaincy.

He met with a few of us this past week at the Spiritual Care Collaborative Conference (a joint meeting of Assoc. of Professional Chaplains, Assoc. for Clinical Pastoral Education, National Assoc. of Catholic Chaplains, National Assoc. of Jewish Chaplains, Assoc. for Pastoral Care and Counseling and Canadian Assoc. for Pastoral Practice and Education). I was struck again by his passion for the work we are called to do and his compassion for those of us who do it. The years of jumping out of planes have long passed, but he is still as passionate and tenderhearted a person as you’ll ever meet.

Robert Ward is just beginning his career in ministry as a Lay Minister in the Presbyterian Church. As part of his training, he shadowed me here for several days this past summer. Months ago, he sent me a copy of his first sermon. I put it in my cd player, got called away for something I can’t even remember now, and found it today when I went to insert another presentation to review. It was a message I needed to hear today. In it I heard a fresh voice speak of what happens here in my hospital as seen through fresh eyes. It was a beautiful message, beautifully done.

What I heard as the Voice spoke through these two instruments was that I can become accustomed to what I see, hear, and encounter in this work. But I need not, must not become calloused by it. Have you heard that Voice too?

Blessings to you all,

Dead Seas and Dry Lakes

2009-01-29T14:59:00.000-08:00

“You gave abundant showers, O God; you refreshed your weary inheritance.” Ps. 68:9

The Dead Sea isn’t actually dead. Some things live in it, just not many things. The extremely high salt content of its waters will not support many forms of life, with the exception of some bacteria and fungi. The primary reason for this high salinity is that the Dead Sea has no outlet. Water from the Jordan River and a few other streams flow in. Nothing flows out. Ministers, myself included, have sometimes used this fact to underscore the importance of serving others. As we receive, we should also give in order to avoid the spiritual equivalent of becoming a Dead Sea ourselves.

On the opposite end of the spectrum is the deadness that follows giving and giving without receiving any refreshing inflow. In either case, the outcome is the same; the absence of the ability to support life.

This has been an incredibly busy week at our hospital. The volume of patients that have come through our doors and the acute nature of many of their health problems have challenged and stretched our Care Givers. Yesterday, one family member of one such patient noted with no small amazement how their nurse was crying with them as they wept over their loved one’s waning moments of life. She was not unique. That caring spirit pervades every department of our hospital. I am so grateful to work with so many caring hearts who make the choice not only to be excellent at their task, but to be exceptionally caring too.

To continue in this ability to be touched by the pain of others, to be able to connect emotionally and spiritually, caregivers must also care for themselves. Taking the time to exercise, relax, do something fun, and feed your spirit keeps the inflow coming so that your outflow does not result in emotional and spiritual exhaustion. Around here we don’t have “Dead Seas.” Let’s care for ourselves, and each other, so that we don’t have any dry lakes either.

Blessings to you all,

2009-01-23T17:07:00.000-08:00

Glimmers
January 23, 2009

“If something cannot go on forever, it will eventually stop.” Nathan S. Kaufman

Recently, Nathan S. Kaufman spoke to the leadership of our hospital about healthcare in the United States. He focused on the overall picture of the healthcare system, government policies, insurance, and hospital-physician partnerships. It was at times a sobering, humorous, and in the end, hopeful presentation about how healthcare systems can survive and thrive in this difficult environment.

These are indeed challenging times for healthcare with rising costs, declining reimbursements, physician shortages. But it got me to thinking about how the quote applies to so many other things. How many people are saving for retirement? I wish I had started earlier! Got a living will? We often act as if things will never change and just go on forever as they are.

But they won’t. The question is have we made any plans?

Blessings to you all,

Glimmer Man

The Power of Encouragement

2009-01-15T15:27:00.000-08:00

Glimmers
January 15, 2009

“Therefore encourage one another and build each other up…”(1Thessalonians 5:11 NIV)

It struck me this morning as I tried a new exercise on my Wii Fit that there is powerful psychology at work in that little machine. The exercise was jogging in place. The screen showed a beautiful park with mountains, waterfalls and lush foliage. My task was to “run” at a pace sufficient to keep up with the Mii in front of me (Miis are computer-generated characters in the program) but not to pass him. Every couple of minutes or so, he looked behind to see how I was doing and gave me a wave as if to say, “keep it up, you’re doing great.” Along the course, other Miis appeared. Some were running in the same direction, some coming toward me. Sometimes they jumped up and down with delight, hands raised like a football official signaling a touchdown. All of it helped me want to keep going to reach the finish line.

People need encouragement. We need it, our spouses need it, our children need it, and so do the people who come to our hospital for care. How can we offer encouragement? I think an insight from Larry Crabb is helpful here.

In his book, Connecting, he talks of God’s delighting in us even in the messes we have sometimes made of our lives. “Rather than entering the dark places of our souls with a flashlight and a scalpel, intent on repairing what is wrong, he enters with a flashlight and a smile, eager to let us see how he feels about us even when we stand exposed in his presence. He looks at us with eyes of delight that see a goodness beneath the mess, with a heart that beats wildly with excitement over who we are and who we will become” (p. 10).

How can we do that? It is not exactly what Crabb says word for word, but a strategy I have adopted, even when the person has done terrible and self-destructive things, is try to find somewhere in the conversation to say, “I like it that you_________.” And fill in the blank. It never ceases to amaze me how that little phrase draws people out and helps me connect with them. People respond to encouragement, they really do.

Blessings to you all,

Glimmer Man

Sympathy

2009-01-08T16:11:00.000-08:00

I really should be more sympathetic. I know, "you're a chaplain, that is your job." Well, yes, but nothing reminds one of how bad feeling sick feels like being sick. I don't get sick often. And I hardly ever get so sick I just want to go to bed. But that is what happened over Christmas vacation. Not the whole vacation, thankfully. But a few days of it I felt miserable.

Compared to the people I see in the course of my job, what I suffered was really minor league stuff. However, I am so used to feeling good that I found it hard to remember what feeling sick felt like. Not now.

I know that not everything that happens to me has some deep, spiritual meaning. But I can certainly reflect on what happens to me and be open to the possibility that God can use it in some way. I know that since my little taste of illness, I am feeling the sicknesses of others a little more personally. So, today I give thanks for whatever viral bug infested my being for the past 2 plus weeks. I don't want to go through it again anytime soon. But I don't want to forget it either.

In Praise of Tolerance

2008-12-18T19:29:00.000-08:00

Glimmers
December 18, 2008

“Through some moment of beauty or pain, some sudden turning of our lives, we catch glimmers of at least what the saints are blinded by…” (Frederick Buechner, Listening To Your Life, p. 169)

It raises its head at Christmas time every year. I’m talking about the PC (politically correct) impulse to ignore Christmas at Christmas. It is manifested in the signage at malls, grocery stores, store clerks who can't seem to remember how to say the word "Christmas," and greeting cards. It is the “happy holidays” syndrome.

I understand the impulse for inclusion and sympathize with it to a degree. We are a society that purports to celebrate religious freedom. Persons are free to celebrate whatever religion they wish, or celebrate none. Under our Constitution, you are no less a citizen either way. Our culture has adherents to a wide variety of religious traditions. Some, mistakenly I think, uphold pluralism as a way for all who believe various and differing religions to get along. Religious pluralism is “the view that all religions are equally valid. According to religious pluralists, Judaism, Christianity, Islam, Sikhism, Hinduism, Buddhism, et. al., are all equally worthy, even equally true religions. Each of these is a legitimate expression of a unique cultural heritage, and to reject it as false is to reject that cultural heritage, to marginalise a people.” (ExistenceofGod.com, Dec. 18, 08)

“It doesn’t matter what you believe, as long as you believe,” the pluralist will say. It doesn’t matter, unless of course you really believe it. And that is the problem. Most adherents of a religion believe it. That is why they are adherents! And while there are some universal truths that many religions share, there are some contradictory truth claims too. To tell a believer of any faith that it doesn’t matter what they believe because all religions are equally valid belittles both the person and the religion they practice. Pluralism undermines tolerance precisely because it demeans the importance of religious belief. Tolerance is not required if what you believe doesn’t matter. Tolerance is required when persons believe differently about God and the faiths to which they belong and it matters to them.

The writer at the above website goes on to say, “We are in danger of losing the ability to disagree respectfully. Religious pluralism, which claims to uphold the virtue of tolerance, actually threatens to erode it still further. The solution to religious intolerance is not to pretend that we are all in agreement really, but to learn to disagree respectfully.” I couldn’t agree more.

So, with all due respect, no “Happy Holidays” from me. To my Muslim co-workers and friends, I hope your Eid al Adha was wonderful and that your Hijra-Muharram is blessed. To my Jewish co-workers and friends may your Hanukkah be the happiest yet. And to my Christian friends and co-workers, may all the blessings of Christmas be yours,

Merry Christmas,

Glimmer Man

Make the Call

2008-11-30T12:14:00.000-08:00

I took the photograph on the blog page a couple of years ago. It is in the middle of the Golden Gate Bridge. My wife and I were in San Francisco because I was attending a conference with the Association of Professional Chaplains. My friend, Keith Munford, and his wife, Pam were there too. They had a car rental and we went with them to explore some of the surrounding area. We walked across the Golden Gate Bridge, then went to Muir Woods and finished the day with dinner at Scoma's in Sausilito. It was a memorable day with good friends.

When I was going through my pictures file to select one for the blog page, I came across this one of the bridge sign and it caught my attention again. Though records are incomplete, it is estimated that 1200 to 1500 people have ended their lives by jumping from the Golden Gate Bridge. The deck is 245 feet above the frigid, turbulent waters and a jumpers reach speeds of nearly 90 mph before hitting the surface. Only the seriously suicidal take the plunge. Thus the sign.

It is simple and straighforward. Crisis Counseling. There is Hope! Make the Call! Followed by the warning that jumping is nearly 100% fatal. One of the striking things about the sign is that it has no phone number! (As I recall, other signs do have a phone number).

People who tell others that "you just have to have faith" are like that sign. Wanting in the information department. Faith is transitive. It requires an object. A "Someone" to believe. There is a Someone. Jeremiah 33:2-3 has sometimes been called God's phone number. 2-3"This is God's Message, the God who made earth, made it livable and lasting, known everywhere as God: 'Call to me and I will answer you. I'll tell you marvelous and wondrous things that you could never figure out on your own.' "

Make the Call.

Glimmer Man

Opening Thoughts

2008-11-29T04:44:00.000-08:00

Welcome!

I began writing "Glimmers" almost two years ago to encourage my co-workers at the hospital where I serve as a chaplain. I hope you will find them encouraging as well. Below is my latest effort, a Thanksgiving post. I post a new Glimmers weekly, so come back and check it out!

Glimmer Man

Glimmers
Nov. 26, 2008

“Through some moment of beauty or pain, some sudden turning of our lives, we catch glimmers of at least what the saints are blinded by…” (Frederick Buechner, Listening To Your Life, p. 169)

Two years have passed since I wrote the Glimmers below. In the interim, my grandson, now 3, has developed into a bright, sensitive, amazing little person. His dad has completed another tour in Iraq and, thank God, returned safely. Chris, Candace and Christian will not be with us this year and they will be missed. My eldest daughter, Jessie and her husband, Josh, are expecting and we will soon be grandparents again. Amanda, my youngest, and Chad (former wannabe) are deep in the middle of wedding plans. So I have even more reason to give thanks this year. We’ll feast as usual, but I wanted to share this with you. I think it is one of my better efforts.

Happy Thanksgiving!

Jerald

.

Nov. 21, 2006

Like many of you we are preparing for Thanksgiving at the Smith house. We braved the crowds at the grocery store last weekend to buy the turkey and all of the trimmings for the Smith family traditions. I am thankful we got out alive!

Already the retailers are at work to incite the desire for the latest and greatest, the newest and most fashionable, the bling-bling that proves your love as nothing else can. Thanksgiving is, after all, the kick-off of the holiday buying season when retailers make, in some cases, 70% of their yearly profit. But before all that…STOP.

Stop and look around your table. In my mind, as I look around ours, my wife, who has put up with me for 26 years is there. All of our three girls are there. Two son-in-laws, and one son-in-law wannabe (who we already love like family) are there. Last year one of them was in Iraq. We are sure thankful he is back. Our miraculous little grandson is there. Born at 2lb. 9 oz, now a precocious toddler, healthy and happy. Who is at your table? Give thanks for that. Look on the table. You’ll probably have more than enough to eat. Look up. Got a roof over your head? How often do we take that for granted? And look above that.

Thanksgiving is about that. Stopping to give thanks. I find it interesting that St. Paul, in one of his lists of gross sins, puts “unthankful” right in the middle of all of them. It is quite shocking to see it there the first time you read it (2 Timothy 3:2). The person who has no appreciation for what they already have will not likely ever be content with all they strive to get, and as St. Paul points out, that can lead to all kinds of trouble. As one Greek sage put it, “To whom little is not enough, nothing is enough”. Thanksgiving is the perfect antidote for that “nothing is enough” syndrome.

So, before you stick that fork in your mouth on Thursday: STOP. Give thanks. It could keep you out of a whole lot of trouble.

Thanksgiving Blessings,

Glimmer Man