Royal Happiness

The royal couple had just exited the cathedral and were together for a short conversation in the horse drawn carriage.  The telescopic lens focused on Catherine’s lips and the commentator read them as she questioned the Prince:  “Are you happy?” she asked. 

I hope Prince William answered yes!  But I found the question intriguing.  There may be the assumption that anyone with the wealth, health, youth, and the renown of Prince William would be happy.  Yet we know that even royalty have their moments of sadness.  They, too, know what it means to be human.

They know, as both William and Harry know, what it is like to lose a mother at a formidable time in their adolescence.  They know what it is like to feel lonely, wondering who your real friends are.   (I understand that those with lots of wealth, power, and prestige sometimes have to be concerned with such). And perhaps they wonder, at times, if it is all worth it.  I wonder if sometimes they envy us commoners.  Who cares where we go on vacation, or where we go out to dinner, or that we are out cutting our lawns on a Saturday afternoon?  No paparazzi follow us around snapping photos of everything we do, although I do know pastors who tell about Church people just passing by their house to see what they were doing!

I think the new bride’s question showed some sensitivity and  understanding of the event.  Big weddings do not make one happy, nor do all the trappings of royalty.  I wonder if the newlyweds knew what we are learning, that happiness is rooted in all the good  relationships we nurture over our lifetime.

One of the happiest weddings I ever officiated was in the middle of a dust storm in the Andes. The groom wore a suit I had loaned him for the occasion.  Chickens and dogs mingled among the guests in the little cinder block church.  Babies were crying.  We gathered outside at the reception for a cookie and a tin cup filled with lemon grass tea. I’m not sure, but I think I heard the bride ask the groom, estas felize (are you happy)?  His broad smile said he was.

Hospice Heroes

“There are no heroes in the hospice,” I overheard someone say, “and no good days in the hospice.”

I begged to differ, not knowing exactly why.

And knowing that our hospice patients don’t survive more than a few days, or weeks, or months, I could see some logic in my friend’s observation.

There are those few who go home, to return again, but they are here for the reason that their time has been cut short…and we are here to help them live it out in all the fullness of time that a good hospice can offer.

Is this not an heroic deed?  Giving time, and counsel, and medical care far beyond the ordinary?

No heroes in the hospice? Maybe not.  “No good days in the hospice?  

I beg to differ.   I differ because there are those who were hurting, but who now find relief.

I differ because there were those who were struggling to let go, and a nurse, or doctor, or social worker or chaplain gave them permission to do so.

I beg to differ with those who say there are no good days in hospice. There is the reward of seeing a last good day for someone who would have otherwise known only pain and misery.

There are days that are sorrowfully good, a gracious relief for loved ones who have been tired and exhausted, waiting for days, weeks, or months.

Those who work in hospice do not aspire to be heroes; they are merely there to give comfort, resolution, and support in life’s last great hurdle; to do no less for others, than they would want done for themselves.   Perhaps that should be the new definition of  “hero.”

Church Hopping Easter

What does a recently retired minister do on Easter Sunday?  Sleep late?  Go to the beach and meditate?  Sit on the porch and read the paper all day?   No.  Most of us go to Church.  As a matter of fact, I went to two churches on Easter, the one I used to pastor and the one where I am a “balcony person” member.

I am not sure why I felt the need to go to both churches.  It was convenient that Greystone Church had an early service and First Baptist Raleigh the traditional eleven o’clock service.  We have friends at both places, and the very fact that we miss our three children (all far away on this Easter Sunday) seemed to propel my wife and me toward the congregations we have grown to love and appreciate.  Greystone Church is actually the daughter of First Baptist, so there is a family thing going in our attendance at both.

I am glad I did some church hopping.  Not only did I find inspiring and enlightening worship and sermons at both churches, but I felt the Easter spirit of renewal and love in both places.  Before the start of the early service, I complained to an old friend about missing my children who are scattered from Maryland, to Colorado, to California.  She invited my wife and me to their home for dinner with her family! Then at our next Church stop, one member we’ve known for just a few months reminded us of a supper party at her home this week and even invited us to their New Year’s Eve party---just eight months away!

Both pastors, Dr. Randall Lolley at Greystone  and  Dr. Christopher Chapman at First Baptist, said in their sermons that they could not produce empirical evidence of the resurrection.  “It is beyond our senses,” said Dr. Lolley.  “It was not recorded on video,” stated Dr. Chapman.

Indeed, the message of Easter and the resurrection cannot be proved by science or historical fact.  Neither, I suppose, can “love” or spiritual transformation.   Yet, I experienced plenty of both in the renewal of old friendships and the hospitality of new found friends on this church hopping Easter Sunday.

Good Friday Laughter

Pete (not his real name) stands at the door of the YMCA in my neighborhood.  Developmentally challenged, this young man in his twenties opens the doors for people hurrying in and out. Sometimes, he dispenses stickers appropriate to the season of the year as people leave. This Good Friday was no exception.

I had attended the Maundy Thursday service at church the night before. The church balcony was empty and dark.  The small crowd gathered in the evening shadows below.  We left the service in silence to a darkening sky.

 I awoke the next morning to a dreary and cool day, rain seeping from gray clouds.  “That’s the way Good Friday should be,” I told myself as I rushed out to the Y to get some treadmill time and needed recreation.  “The exercise will do me good and lift my spirits,” I reasoned.

After a half-hearted work out (you know the excuse you make for not working as hard as you should, mine is “the back problem”), I lumbered toward the door.

There was Pete, smiling as usual.  I nodded hello.  In his impaired speech, he asked if I wanted a sticker.  “You select one for me,” I answered.  Pete beamed as he always does when someone agrees to a sticker. Lacking some dexterity,  he laboriously removed a sticker from the waxed sheet.

Placing the sticker on the tip of his finger, he offered it to me.  I thought of the Maundy Thursday meal the night before, how the bread was offered from the finger tips of the minister.  I took the little sticker and slapped it on my lapel, not realizing what it was. 

Looking down at my newly decorated lapel, I saw the image of a colorful butterfly.

Pete laughed.  So did I.

Balcony Protest on Palm Sunday

Palm Sunday worship is always one of my favorite Sundays of the year. I don’t know why because it is so filled with paradox and misunderstanding.  Over the years, I have led processionals of children who enter the worship with palms waving, usually poking a few folks in the eye on the way down the aisle.  Baptists are finally rediscovering what fun the Episcopalians have been having all these years parading and waving wildly the palms.  We’re still a little reserved about it, however. I noticed while waving branches in the balcony yesterday that most people wave the palms a time or two during the hymn, then hide them away as soon as the music stops. We’re not quite sure what to do with palm branches.  I thought of dropping mine from the balcony and watching it twirl about on the way down, but I knew that would not be proper.

I also wanted to continue waving the branches in approval of the pastor’s sermon, or shall we say “non sermon.” Yesterday, he got rid of the robe and stole and surprised us as a character from the original Palm waving crowd.  Depicting an anonymous member of the crowd who welcomed Jesus into Jerusalem, he told it like it was (and perhaps is for many).  What impressed me is that (prepare for a shock!) he wore jeans and a sweat shirt, as if he were one of us on a non-Sunday morning.  Forgetting notes and avoiding the pulpit, he told us the story of the events of that day when Jesus rode into Jerusalem and was hailed as a king.  Of course, we all knew the rest of the story pretty well, but it was good to hear from someone who was there and could explain the paradoxical events.  How is it a crowd could turn from praise to condemnation in a matter of hours, or as quickly as it takes us Baptists to hide our palm branches under the pew, or drop them from the balcony to the floor?

Palm Sunday evening I received a phone call from a member of the Church I had previously pastored.  She said, “I remember you stated in your sermon in 2003 that Palm Sunday was really a protest march!”  Wow, I didn’t know anyone was listening.  “A protest march?  I said that?” Yes, and I hope I can stand by that statement and defiantly wave my palms in protest of the many injustices that still exist these many years since the triumphant entry of Jesus.

Sacrifice--The Coat off His Back

I imagine we’ll be in the balcony hearing a lot about sacrifice in the coming Holy Week.  But one story of sacrifice I well remember happened the winter of 1992. It was a fairly warm winter in Winston-Salem.  Our family had just moved from South America where we had lived for the previous fourteen years.  Our three children were not quite sure what to make of winter, since we had just returned from Ecuador, the land of “eternal springtime.”

Our eldest son had received an invitation from the church youth group to a ski trip on a Saturday evening.  Not having felt the urgency in this mild winter to re-outfit with winter coats and such, we sent our ninth grade son out with his denim jacket to hit the slopes for an evening. When he returned that night, he was wearing a new ski jacket.  “Where did this come from?” we asked with some surprise in our voices.  “Uncle David gave it to me.  He was at the slopes with his boys.   He said he had another one and I could just keep this coat.”

“Uncle David” was Dr. David Smith, pastor of the First Baptist Church of Lenoir, North Carolina.  He had served with us in Ecuador in the eighties.  Knowing what it was like to return to the States and live in “reverse” culture shock, David probably knew that my son’s socially inappropriate attire was probably due to our cultural confusion and chaos of readjustment to the States after so many years.  Or perhaps it was just the fact that my son was probably freezing in the denim jacket. 

That was long enough ago that I honestly don’t remember if we returned David Smith’s coat to him. I really doubt he had an extra one with him.  I think he literally gave my son the coat off his back that evening, willing to take the night’s chill upon himself in order to relieve my son of social embarrassment and the cold of winter.

Hiding Passover Matzos and Fighting Easter Eggs

My family and I were among a group from our Church in Roanoke, Virginia, who were invited to an educational Passover meal at a local synagogue.  The rabbi was gracious to provide an evening for us during such a busy week.  Children were present, including our then fifth grade daughter and her friend. We were a little concerned when, as part of the ritual of the meal, several sips of very sweet Passover wine were taken by my daughter and her friend.  We urged them to sip with caution, but did note a little bit of giggling midway into the ritual feast.  We were glad when the rabbi invited the children to run to all corners of the building to try and find some hidden matzos.  I am not sure what the symbolism is in hiding matzos, but I was grateful that it did give the children a chance to work off some of the giggles.

I am noticing Easter baskets and announcements of Church Easter Egg hunts as Holy Week approaches.  I am also remembering “egg fights” as a kid.  No, we did not throw eggs, but after the colored eggs were hidden, we would have a contest cracking one against the other.  The winner was the one that did not crack.  One year, my father found some geese eggs and I colored them.  Shells of geese eggs are about twice the thickness of chicken eggs.  I was the egg fight champion that year.  The other kids cried foul (forgive the pun)!

As I reflect upon the hidden matzos, hunting Easter eggs, and the egg fights, I am aware of some of the symbolism, especially the element of “surprise” in all three of these childhood games.  Perhaps that is at the root of the holy observances of the coming week.  For Jews who find the matzos, there is the delight of remembering in the matzo the deliverance from slavery.  In the Easter egg hunt, there is the surprise of finding that which was lost, of finding life when we thought there was only death.  As for the Easter egg fight, who knows?  Maybe that’s merely a lesson for us all that there can be fun, even when life feels as uninviting as a three day old Easter egg after the hunt.

Balcony Tears

There was not a dry eye in the house.  This Sunday’s worship included the reading from the Gospel of John where Mary, Martha, and Jesus were all weeping at Lazarus’ death.  We read about his death and resurrection every year about this time.  It becomes a preview, we often say, of the wonderful and surprising things to come.  Rarely do we weep when we read it.  It has become much too familiar, and we know the ending.

It was either ironic or by careful calculation that a lay person was invited to share his faith journey at the conclusion of  the Sunday worship.  In a very real sense, he fleshed out the story of  Lazarus in his own experience of coming to grips with depression which had sent him to the brink of death.  He recounted a time in his life when he saw four friends, all dealing with some of the same self destructive issues with which he dealt, suddenly lose their lives.  He was sure he was next.  He ended up in a treatment facility.  More importantly, he also found himself in the graceful care of a young woman who loved him and a Church fellowship who embraced him.  Slowly, he found health, life, and purpose.   He was tearful throughout his testimony, and many others cried or sniffed back tears as he recounted his return to health.

What was so very evident to me as I heard this young man’s story was the love and care of many who would not give up on him.  It seemed to underscore the persistence of Mary and Martha, and of Jesus, not to give up on Lazarus. As we in the Church move toward the celebration of the resurrection on Easter Sunday, I wonder if we too often try to imagine some ethereal scene never realized or observed before.  I wonder if the resurrection is really more visible and more present that we think.  Perhaps it’s as near as the love which encircles us right now and urges us not to give up, no matter how bad things get.

Touching Raleigh with Love and Biscuits

There were no balcony people at the Church on Saturday morning.  None of us even went into the sanctuary.   We were busy in the kitchen baking biscuits and brewing coffee to take to a park downtown for distribution to the homeless.

Loading the hot cheese stuffed biscuits and coffee into the van, we made the short trek to Moore Square, only to be surprised that most of the park had been fenced off for a beer festival that afternoon.  I wondered if the beer venders thought we might be bringing them biscuits and coffee, which would be okay if they were hungry, or if those passing by might think we were enticing them to come inside to the beer fest.  We did find a space between the beer garden gate and the sidewalk to set up our one table. Hardly before we could get the table upright, people began coming from every direction.  Hungry men, women, and children gathered around us on this unusually chilly and cloudy April morning, grateful for a warm cheese biscuit and some coffee. I suspected most were homeless.  All were hungry.

One hundred and fifty biscuits were gone in no time. The coffee lasted a few minutes longer. I felt guilty we had not baked more biscuits. I wondered where the hundreds of homeless people had come from. Our offerings seemed far too little.

Some of the people lingered with their biscuits, just to talk and say “thank you.” Most everyone gave us smiles of gratitude.  Some asked if we had some clothing to give away.  Fortunately, another group was helping distribute clothing at the Church building, so some were directed there for assistance.

The name of this annual mission emphasis is “Touching Raleigh with Love.” As I loaded the empty cups and boxes into our warm and dry van, I wondered  just who was being touched most with love on this gray April morning.

Forever Friends

I have a few forever friends.  These are the few folks I have known since my brain discovered it could remember.  John is one of those friends.  We have shared so many growing up and growing old events that we sometimes can remember the rest of the story the other one of us just forgot.

It is rare in these transient times to have a friend with whom you lived in the same neighborhood, attended the same church, school, and college.  John and I were even baptized in the same baptismal pool on the same day.  Guess you could say we are born anew twins.  We were probably together when we first became what our church’s covenant called “backsliders.”

One of the things that forever friends do is share memories. Just beginning a sentence with “remember when” can fill an entire evening. Sometimes we talk about our shared experiences of Church, the neighbors, the school, and college.  We were even suitemates in college for four years.  John often says, “Dennis, don’t you wish all of us guys could live together again like we did in college?”

I answer, “John, we can do that.  It’s called the Springmoor Retirement Community just up the street.”

John has long forgiven me (I hope) for filling his suitcase, the one he took on his honeymoon, with grits.  At least they weren’t cooked!  He even laughs about it now.  But I am not sure he has gotten over every single one of the dozens of practical jokes I (and a few accomplices) pulled on him.  I expect that someday in the not too distant future we might forget those and a lot more things, but let’s not go there right now.

For now, I am especially grateful for a forever friend with whom I can occasionally sit on my balcony of remembrance and talk about whatever I might not be able to remember alone.

Balcony of the World: Quito, Ecuador

Speaking of balconies, try living in Quito, Ecuador, altitude almost 10,000 feet.  My family and I lived on that lovely balcony of the world for eight memorable and mostly wonderful years. It is there where we attempted raising, as much as any parents can, our three children.  In my memory, it was an ideal era in our family history.  Memory is like a balcony where we gaze down to the past and marvel over its beauty, often unable to see the ugly and uncomfortable parts.   Who knew that all those years of glorious, sunny Quito days would burn right through our sunscreen and clothes to cause the skin cancers at least two of us in the family have, years later, developed.  High altitude, plus sun, plus intense radiation equals danger. 

Speaking of danger, our first Quito house was precariously stuck into the side of a mountain that looked down upon the city of Quito. The house had at least five levels, which meant that almost each room had its own level.  At our evening meal, we would gather in the dining room and watch the airplanes on their approach to the International Airport.  We actually looked down upon the airplanes, one of which dramatically missed the runway and plowed through a neighborhood.

In front of our house were descending rows of other houses which led down to the old Atahualpa Olympic Stadium.  I remember going to the overlook area across the street and watching what was reported to be a million faithful who crowded in and around the Olympic Stadium to see the Pope.  If we peered hard enough, we could actually gaze upon the Pope from our house.  The kids, faithless creatures that they were, seemed more excited about the Pope-mobile than the Pope!

The views were extraordinary from that Quito house.  We ate breakfast viewing the looming Pichincha volcano.  We saw the tanks roll out on the tarmac at the airport the day General Frank Vargas attempted a military golpe of the government.  I was on the last flight from Guayaquil to Quito that day before the government closed all the airports, and was safely home watching from the balcony when the tanks rolled out.  Frank Vargas failed in his attempt, being arrested a couple hours later as he hid in the lingerie section of a nearby department store. Meanwhile, on the swings at the park next door, the kids pretended they were flying.  Indeed, their feet were higher than the planes that flew through the valley below, and the tanks were barely visible and silent except for one or two loud shots.

When I’m asked why I sit in the balcony at Church, I suppose it’s partly because it brings memories of the Quito years and the balcony experiences when the Hermans lived on the top of the world, in the land of eternal springtime, on the equator. 

Church Balcony Blues

The fourth Sunday in Lent is not known for its cheerfulness.  It’s still a ways from the festiveness of Resurrection Sunday. I suppose one could say that I felt appropriately blue this Sunday.  The prelude “Jesus Walked This Lonesome Valley” is one of my favorites, but tends to pierce me right to the core of the soul when I hear it.

I must confess that one reason for my balcony blues is that all the teams I pulled for in the NCAA semifinals lost the night before. It makes me feel guilty to confess that a ballgame can affect my mood.  “So many people are dealing with real problems,” I say, “like where their next house payment will come from, and if the chemo will work, or what will become of their prodigal child…”

I admit to a tinge of sympathy for our pastor whose Kentucky basketball affinities had been well publicized over the last few weeks.  I had a feeling he, like most of the balcony crowd and many in the expensive seats below,  had stayed up beyond a usual bedtime to cheer on his team. I was glad I did not have to face the crowd today, as he did.  But he was gracious in his loss and did not seem a bit distracted from the sermon based upon the healing of the blind man as told in the Gospel of John. I did note that he was no longer sporting a Kentucky blue shirt.

In discussing the lesson of the healing of the blind man and Jesus’ encounter with the question “who sinned…this man or his parents,” Pastor Chris touched on the issue of divine retribution.  Do misfortunes happen because of our sins?  Do blessings occur because of our faithfulness?  Do we spend more time placing blame than we do on trying to heal or fix? Are we more concerned with rules and regulations, than with doing what is right?  I thought of one of my ethics professors in seminary who reminded us, “Sometimes you just have to go against your principles and do the right thing!”

The worship service included seven youth who read the Gospel lesson, a hand bell prelude, a children’s choir dressed in cheerful Carolina blue robes, beautiful hymns, a choral anthem about grace, shared prayers, and a testimony of faith by a member who shared about a particularly difficult time when her teen aged son sustained life threatening injuries.

I had come to the balcony feeling blue, going through the motions, singing the songs, and following the liturgy.  I left not thinking so much about how I felt, but ready to open my eyes to so much more than the next basketball game.

What Retirement is Teaching Me

If you are not retired, read this at your own risk. It may be like saying to a small child, “there is no Santa Claus.”  If you are retired, don’t bother to read any further.  You already know all of the lessons I am learning.

·         I am learning to procrastinate.  Already know how to do that?  Just wait, retirement makes it worse.  You think you can always cut the grass tomorrow.

·         It may not be smart to retire before your spouse does (Honey, please don’t read this). Sometimes she might leave a little note about something that could be done just in case you get bored.

·         I am learning that I have more time than money. 

·         I am also learning I don’t have as much time as I thought I had.  When you get older it takes longer to get up, get dressed, and remember where you were headed when you walked out of the kitchen.

·         I am learning that I miss my work associates. Where are the secretary and custodian when I need them now?

·         I am learning that the sound of the phone ringing now makes my heart jump with anticipation rather than run with fear!

·         I am learning that my yard keeps getting bigger, the shrubs larger, and the lawn mower less efficient.

·         I am learning that everyone else seems to have many ideas about what I can do with my time.

·         I am finding that when I get into a conversation with a pretty lady at the supermarket, she starts talking about her grandfather who is also retired or recently deceased.

·         I am finding that I get resentful when the clerk at the store sarcastically calls me “young man.”

·         I am finding that I have forgotten the frustrations, long hours, bone aching fatigue, and all the other things which caused me to say, “when I retire…”