It happened on the 4th floor of Joseph Brant Hospital

My eyes have always been drawn to the seemingly insignificant details of life.

Detail such as the elderly lady - a patient at the hospital where we were singing on Christmas Day - who was 'parked' in the hallway, perhaps, for a change of scenery.  To the the nurse who put the lady's hearing aides in her ears as we started to sing carols. How the lady reached from under the blanket for the song sheet I was handing to her. How she moved her mouth to the words of Silent Night while she tried to dislodge her stuffed animal from the tangles of her sheet. How she attempted to smooth out the wrinkles of her bed sheet with her wrinkled hand after she had twice unsuccessfully propped up her Teddy Bear on her bed's edge. How she happily accepted a home-made ornament from a child but declined a second home-made ornament from the same child.

However:

To me, she was the welcoming audience, the gracious host, the musical accompaniment, the gifted soprano, the quiet director, and the entire choir.
To me, she was the reason why we went to the hospital to sing Christmas favourites.
To me, she was why my teen-age children wanted to continue our tradition of singing at 'Joe Brant'.
To me, she was why Jesus came to the earth.

What might have seemed like an insignificant patient on the fourth floor of Joseph Brant Hospital was probably a lot like what Jesus' birth was to his contemporaries. Unimportant. Ho-Hum. Same ole, same ole. I imagine that most people thought that Jesus' birth was just another birth in an old barn. Poor luck Mary and Joe - should have booked your hotel room sooner. His cries were just another baby's cries from hunger pangs or a diaper that needed changing. The shepherds' visit, a little odd given their social status, but nothing too unusual or out of the realm of possibility. I imagine most of the events surrounding Jesus' birth went unnoticed save for a few who actively watched and waited, and who were open to the angel's messages.

I'm wondering if complacency and a general disinterest in life's details comprise our collective Achilles heel. If so, we might be missing a message that's revealing an eternal truth.

Where Christmas memories are held

Twice daily - usually twice - I pass the house I grew up in. More often than not I take a quick glance in some sort of nostalgic way. Sometimes I'll remember mowing the 3/4's of acre by hand or the rare water fights Mom allowed us to have. (We were only allowed half a pail of water since our well was only 18 feet deep and running out of water was a constant summer threat.) I'll remember the annual pumping of our house's septic system that we greeted with disdain. Or, the chicken coop that required daily visits to collect the eggs, which my brother, Duane, and I had to sell on Saturday mornings. We arranged our egg delivery schedule so we could end up at our neighbour's house where we were always invited in to watch cartoons.

And lately, I've been thinking about Christmas times spent when I was young. Mom and Dad didn't have a lot to spend but they made sure there were gifts under the tree for all six kids. I remember my Dad pretending he was Santa Claus one Christmas and saying 'Ho-Ho-Ho' as he carried a brand new Dutch Sjoelbak game (Shuffle Board) up the stairs from our basement. I remember decorating the Christmas tree and throwing the silver icicles and hoping they land in an orderly fashion. (Do they still make those?) I remember having to wash the dinnertime dishes by hand before we could open the presents on Christmas Eve. There were times when Mom would read a Christmas story from The Calvinist Contact before we went to bed. I remember the wooden hockey sticks and pucks that were waiting in our bedroom when Duane and I woke up.

And, then there was the Christmas that we wrapped everything in sight! Since my brother and sister and I didn't have any money to buy gifts we looked for items that were more or less forgotten in our house and regifted them! We would've wrapped our cat, George, if he would have let us! We wrapped old books, or silverware (that's what we called cutlery back then), or mitts and hats that hadn't seen the light of day in years. Or old business cards. My brother found a stack of old business cards that my Dad hadn't used and wrapped them and gave them to him for Christmas. I can still hear the laughter and delight in Dad's voice. I think that gift was the most precious to him that year.

Christmas' seemed simpler back then - and it probably was. Christmas wasn't as commercialized as it is now - the stores were closed on Sundays...even the Sunday before Christmas!

We can't turn the clocks back. And, I don't even know if we'd want to if we could. We have new memories to create and frame. Our kids are now teenagers and we we're just reminiscing of past Christmas' not long ago. I'm thankful for my family. I'm thankful for old memories and new memories. I'm thankful for Christmas' spent on Robson Road 'yesterday' and Centre Road 'today'.

Wishing you wonderful memories this Christmas as we celebrate the birth of our risen Lord and Saviour, Jesus!

What story do your hands tell?

It's not what I was expecting when I turned the page.

Literally.

I wasn't just turning the next page in life - I was turning the next page of the morning paper. In the particular section of the newspaper I happened to be reading there's usually a list of people grouped in alphabetical order. And then, either on the same page or somewhere on the next few pages, you'll find the name repeated followed by a brief caption of their life and some other important details. More often than not these life notices will include a picture.

Not that day.

On that day the family who was left behind chose a picture of their loved one's hands rather than her face. Not only was it a hand that obviously had seen many days but included a younger person's hand - a hand that has just started life's journey.

We expect certain things. We expect morning to follow night. We expect spring to follow winter. And, we expect people to grow old. We expect to see in obituaries the faces of those who have died - not their hands.

I'm not sure what this person's family wanted to share by printing a picture of their now deceased's hand grasping a more youthful hand, but it spoke volumes. This was a hand of person who loved and was loved. Hands that worked and served. Hands that held and let go. Hands that wiped tears of sorrow and clapped in victory. Unique to her and like no others. This was a hand that held on to a youth in spite of age.

And, then there were Trevor's hands. It's not what I expected. At 5AM this past Friday morning I knelt beside Trevor for a few minutes before the paramedics arrived. Trevor's hands had had enough of the snow. His hands were cold and clenched. His hands had blood on them from his bleeding face. His hands tried to resist those who came to help him. Finally relenting, Trevor's hands allowed the medic to help him stand. The medics' hands now held him up and I saw Trevor's cold hands relax.

Our hands tell stories - in many ways they mirror our face. We may try to hide the wrinkles, or wash off the evidence. We may strike out with fists in anger or hug tightly in love. Our hands are often expressions of our souls. They are our title page of our life's story.

And Trevor...I pray his hands will grow old - and love - and hold.

#NOTEVENCLOSE

The selection, the pregnant pause, the unwrapping, 'the ooh and the aah', the smile, the twinkle...there was everything! I had this one locked up! Could it BE any clearer? So, I waited for my number to be called. #7's next. Hey...I'm #7. Here was my chance to shine. I didn't have to go far to get it. I reached to my right and took it with confidence. Then - silence. Followed by...laughter. Lots of laughter.

I wasn't even close! Oh...the shame. Oh...the laughter.

Did I say #NOTEVENCLOSE?

Last night's Christmas party will go down in the history books - at least it will in my mind. If you've ever played the gift exchange game where stealing is encouraged, then you might understand the dilemma I faced. If you don't know this game, here's a quick look at the rules.

1. Bring a wrapped gift. Preferably a gift that you received at your wedding 20 years ago and one that was never used. Or maybe a wall ornament that you have to blow an inch of dust from.
2. Don't admit which gift is yours and make sure your spouse knows what paper you used.
3. From a predetermined draw, wait until your number is called and either pick an unwrapped gift that was brought by another guest - or 'steal' a gift that someone else picked previously.
4. And, if you do steal a gift, put it under your chair so that 'future un-wrappers' will forget about it.

That's about it. I might have skipped a few steps but if you're clever, you'll get the gist of the game. Basically, you hope to take home the best of someone else's unwanted or no longer used gifts.

Here was the dilemma. Pick something for me. Or, pick something for her. So, being all manly and stuff, I picked something for her. First the Christmas Carousel. Then the "NOooooo" from across the room from where she was sitting. Then the laughter. I thought she liked it. She oohed and aahed. She smiled. Her eyes twinkled. So, I stole it. I stole a gift from a fellow guest because I thought she liked it. The queues were all there. Any guy would have done the same. But the laughter. Oh the laughter. (Kind of made me feel like the Grinch - Jim Carey's version - when he came out with band-aids after shaving!)

Don't worry. It's all good.  I'm pleased to say that we now have a new Christmas ornament on our shelf and a great story to go with. But, for me, it's also a story of discovery. I'm still learning about my wife's tastes. Sometimes, when I think I've nailed 'it' I couldn't be more wrong. And, at other times, it's totally reversed.

I think it's a lot like how the fruit of the Holy Spirit - love, joy, peace, patience, kindness, goodness, faithfulness, gentleness, and self-control - grows within. These nine gifts of the God are called fruit for a reason. A piece of fruit starts from a flower and over the course of a season the apple, or pear, or peach, ripens to full maturity. Just like fruit, a gift of the Holy Spirit has to grow and mature within before it bears fruit. It doesn't happen over night and it could even take a lifetime before it's ready to be picked. So, when I first met my wife, believe it or not, I didn't know everything about her immediately...and, from last night's events, it's very evident there's along way to go! I love her and I'm still learning.

I love the Lord Jesus Christ and I'm still learning. The fruit is growing. I just wish 'patience' would ripen 'cause I can't wait for that one!

Oh...one more thing...I can't wait for Christmas either!

The annual pilgrimage to Main Street, Waterdown

As the 102nd float inched by, followed by a team of horses and a man carrying a pitchfork and pail, my eyes continued their rolling motion toward the back of my skull. A dance school then passed by, then a company promoting its pumping prowess, then another marching band,  then a float with a blown loud speaker blaring 'Frosty the Snowman'. 'End it already' I quietly wished - not wanting my wife (who has not missed a Christmas Parade in her life except one) to hear me!  So, not being blessed with vertical length i.e. height, I casually stood as tall as possible trying to see where this parade would come to its merciful end! But, experience has told me that if I wait long enough I'll catch a glimpse of the end of this parade signified by a man known as Santa Claus. He'll shout 'Ho-Ho-Ho'. We'll wave. Kids will cheer. Then we'll walk briskly to the car and wait another 364 days to repeat this torturous pilgrimage. This is how it will end. Trust me.

Just like I thought it would happen. The anticipation was palpable. Tension was thick as the Burlington Young Red Coats inched forward. That's always the clue. Could it be true? Is he here? Can't wait...can't wait to walk home! Ah, there's the jolly man. Phew. It's over. I survived another Christmas parade. Can't...wait...til...next...year...

My view on Christmas parades must be in the minority because I think all of Southern Ontario was crammed into Waterdown's Victorian Village last night. Dutifully and very orderly, parade enthusiasts set their chairs up on reserved pieces of Main Street's real estate during the wee hours of the morning and afternoon. Pick up trucks and semi enclosed trailers, hot chocolate stands and popcorn carts all waiting for the action. Crowd barricades and car barriers set up to ensure public safety. Not a stone unturned in anticipation of the event. If you didn't know any better, you'd think someone REALLY important was coming to town.

I'm not totally anti-parades and I suppose I could refuse to go . I have watched 19 of them. (Yes, I'm counting!) Honestly, I did come away with something. While I was searching for some meaning to this yearly trek I noticed that on the back of the Youth for Christ/Youth Unlimited float there was a banner that read, "We see the hope and potential of every young person." And there it was. That's what's going on. It was about hope. There was anticipation in the crowd. For most parade goers there was hope that Santa would appear. There was certainty that he would be part of the grand finale. And, they didn't leave disappointed.

Walking back to the car, I thought of the crowd's hope and anticipation to see Santa. I thought what if Jesus was at the end of the parade. Would we line the streets four or five people deep? Would we put out our chairs at 7AM in the morning? Would we race through town hoping to get a good parking spot? Would we put on flashing lights and sell candy floss in hope, in anticipation?

Is that how I actively hope for and anticipate Jesus' return?

Just thinking...

Now, where did we park the car?

"Righteousness...righteousness....is what I long for"

Hot ‘n Cold…Hot ‘n Cold…Hot ‘n Cold. Eventually the heaving of the frost will force the asphalt road to buckle and crack. At our worship service this morning, that’s how our pastor compared God’s relentless pursuit on our lives. God’s warm and irresistible grace eventually penetrates our cold and distant hearts. God sharpens and sharpens and sharpens our character until we ‘crack’ and allow the Holy Spirit to further seep in and continue His work shaping our lives.

I’ve often felt ambivalent about Romans 8:28. In my suffering – through bouts of physical temptation and periods of mental agony – how have these experiences been for my good? And why should I even rejoice in them? As written in previous posts it’s becoming clearer to me every day. Through God’s sharpening, I’m looking forward to see what God has in store for me. I’m looking forward to seeing a smile on someone that only suggests God’s grace and goodness is living within. I’m looking forward to wiping a tear from someone just coming to know God’s love. I’m looking forward to walking the road to Emmaus and sharing God’s story of redemption. I’m looking forward to looking in the manger next month. I’m looking forward to the day when my faith shall be sight.

This hasn’t happened overnight. This has taken me 46 plus years to only begin to understand and appreciate. Our sense of urgency and time is linear. God’s time is eternal. In the book of Genesis, we read that Joseph – son of Jacob – spent almost 30 years in a foreign land before God fully revealed His purposes in Joseph’s trials. He even spent several years in prison for a crime he didn’t commit! When the Master Weaver pulled the last strings, Joseph was able to witness that it was God who wrote – and wove – the story.

The following poem is attributed to anonymity speaks of God’s mysterious working in our lives.

‘When God Wants a Man’

When God wants to drill a man and thrill a man and skill a man…

When God wants to mould a man to play the noblest part;
When He yearns with all His heart to create so great and bold a man
That all the world shall praise,
Watch His methods, watch His ways!

How He ruthlessly perfects whom He royally elects; how He hammers and hurts him,

And with mighty blows coverts him into frail shapes of clay that only God understands.
How his tortured heart is crying and he lifts beseeching hands....
How He bends but never breaks when His good He undertakes.
How He uses whom He chooses…. with every purpose fuses him;
By every art induces him to try His splendour out
God knows what He’s about!

When God wants to take a man and shake a man and wake a man…

When God wants to make a man to do the Father’s will;
When He yearns with all His soul to create him large and whole…
With what cunning He prepares him… how He goads and never spares him!

How He whets him, He frets him and in poverty, begets him…

How often He disappoints whom He sacredly anoints!
With what wisdom He will hide him; never minding what betide him…
Makes him lonely so that only God’s high messages shall reach him…
So that He may surely teach him what His heavenly Father planned.

When God wants to name a man and tame a man to do His heavenly best….

When He tries the highest test that His reckoning may bring…
How He reins him and restrains him so his body scarce contains him…
When He fires him and inspires him, keeps him yearning,
Ever burning for the tantalizing goal.
Lures and lacerates his soul… sets a challenge for His spirit;
Draws it highest, then he is near it!
Then makes a jungle, then he clears it;
Makes a desert that he fears it, if he can…
So does God make a man!

Then to test His Spirit’s wrath, He throws a mountain in his path,

Puts a bitter choice before him and relentlessly stands o’er him…
Climb or perish, so He says…. But watch His purpose, watch His ways!
God’s plan is wondrously kind… could we understand His mind?
Fools are they who call God blind!

When his feet are torn and bleeding; yet His Spirit mounts unheeding…

Blazing newer paths and finds....
Lo, the crisis, lo, the shouts that would call the leader out…
When the people need salvation does he rise to lead the nation;
Then does God show His plan… and the world has found its man!

Author Unknown

 

Can you handle the truth?

“WHAT IS YOUR NAME?”

In case you didn’t hear me, let me say it again – a little more loudly and closer to your face. Uncomfortably close. In your space close. A ‘Jack Nicholson – “You can’t handle the truth!” close.

“WHAT. IS. YOUR. NAME?”

Before you answer me, let me explain something. I’m not asking in the sense of a customs agent’s question to a nervous traveler, or kid in the playground probing the unassuming visitor who has boldly climbed the jungle gym. I’m not asking for the name on your birth certificate or passport. I’m not even asking for the name on the sticker that says, “Hi, My name is _______”. That name is a label. Something your parents gave you when you were born and it just happened to stick.

My question goes deeper. It goes beyond the surface stuff that we politely engage in when meeting people for the first time or even the thousandth time when we can’t seem to remember names. It’s a ‘peel the onion back’ answer. The answer that conjures up emotion, either laughter or tears or nothing at all. The answer that opens your soul and forces you to answer the question yourself: “WHAT. IS. MY. NAME?”

As a teenager, I cringed when I was asked my name. I was embarrassed because I felt ‘Henry’ was an old man’s name – it was my grandfather’s name. For a brief period of time, I even tried to change it but it didn’t stick because when people used the name I didn’t respond! It wasn’t who I was – it wasn’t my identifier. In 1992, standing at the side of my dying grandfather, it was only then I felt proud and honoured to named Henry. It spoke loudly within me. I just had to grow into it. So, that’s what people still call me. Henry’s my name on my driver’s license. It’s who a telemarketer asks for. It’s what our pastor called me on my wedding day…”Henry, do you take Wendi…?” You get the point.

But hang on. We’re peeling the onion back. Eight months ago – or so – I started to read a biography by Eric Metaxas called Bonhoeffer: Pastor, Martyr, Prophet, Spy. Six months and 542 pages later I finished the book. Dietrich Bonhoeffer was a German Lutheran minister who was eventually executed in the final days of WWII for his participation in the famous and unsuccessful Valkyrie plot to assassinate Adolph Hitler. Bonhoeffer saw his efforts to undermine the Nazi regime as a cost of being a disciple of Jesus Christ. And if death was the penalty, then death was just the beginning of life. According to Bonhoeffer, being a disciple of Jesus was and is costly. Bonhoeffer’s opening in his book The Cost of Discipleship reads “Cheap grace is the deadly enemy of our Church. We are fighting today for costly grace.”

Getting closer. One more layer peeled. In reading Bonhoeffer, I’ve been challenged to reflect on my own life and answer the question: “WHAT. IS. MY. NAME?” In other words, if I’m being truthful, then who does God say that I am? Has faith in Jesus defined who I am and has faith in Christ cost me anything? Am I Jacob – a deceiver? Peter – a rock? David – beloved?  Names in the Bible were not just a label as they are today. They are descriptive and telling. (Just read Hosea and see what God told him to call his kids!)

Well, about a month ago one morning, the onion was finally peeled. The tears flowed. In my prayers I was asking for God’s free gift of grace and peace and he kept asking me my name. Sometimes in my face.  But always gently. For many years, I’ve known my true name and identity but I wasn’t going to admit it and He knew it. I was holding on to something that got in the way of grace and it was going to cost me to fully embrace and enjoy his gift. Henry might mean ‘ruler’. But, my name was ‘broken’ on that morning and I was the furthest from being noble.

That day, God wrote the cheque. Jesus paid the price and, I cashed it through the help of the Holy Spirit. I couldn’t be wealthier. Today, my name means restored, recovered, revived, and renewed. And, I know it’s not going to end there because God’s giving me new names every day.

What's in a 'dash'?

Carpe Diem!

Nanu Nanu!

Seize the Day!

O Captain, my Captain!

Good morning, Vietnam!

These phrases were echoing in my mind for a short while after I heard about the death of one of the most gifted comedians that I’ve ever heard and seen – Robin Williams at the age of 63. These were also the words that reminded me of his career. Social media sites were also full of these famous quotes taken from an assortment of Williams’ TV and movie appearances.  Newspapers, radio and television were all clamoring to shed light on Robin Williams’ brilliant acting profession and the struggles he had most of his adult life with depression and substance abuse. And every time I saw the year of his birth, 1951, and the year of his death, 2014, I saw the same thing over and over between these two dates. A dash. Just a 2-3mm dash.

But is it just a dash? What if all you ever thought and did was compressed into that little dash? So, that if the dash was magnified hundreds or thousands of times over, it would reveal your life’s story. Or, what if the dash was replaced by a phrase – a few words – of how you lived your life and what your memory will be for generations to come? Would Williams’ have read: 1951 “A comedian like no other” 2014 or 1951 “Depression knows no social boundary” 2014?  Perhaps, the dash, when magnified, would reveal what Williams said in an interview when asked what would God say to him when he died. And, according to Williams, in his customary lightning-quick fashion, God would have said, “Mr. Williams, there’s seating in the front!”.

Truthfully, I was saddened by Robin Williams’ death. He was one of those comedians who dominated the airwaves when I was growing up and again later in movies over the past several decades. I’m not completely sure why I felt so impacted by his death. It was the same mental nudge, although not as strong, as when I read the daily obituaries and scan the lives of people I’ve never known.  Maybe it’s because the little dash I see between birth and death years reminds me of my own life’s story. And I wonder, what will the dash between my years of life and death say about me?

Will my dash be a long soliloquy, an elegant reflection of my life’s accomplishments and record a long list of my progeny? Or, will it be summarized by a few words or even a single word? My wise neighbor, whose garden puts many gardens to shame said that to be remembered like King Uzziah in 2 Chronicles 26:10 as a man “who loved the soil” would be a very wonderful and noble thing.

When we are born, our dash is virtually non-existent. Not much can be written in the first few years of a person’s life. But as we grow and as God graciously allows us to live longer the dash grows. Layer upon layer of life’s intricacies are added to the dash. Sometimes our dash will be only a few words like King Uzziah’s or it will be several hundreds or even thousands of words in the cases of written biographies.

I hope my dash will read… no wait… I’ll try to live a life that’s remembered for making an impact on those whom God have placed in my path.

And then I’ll leave it to others to find the words - or word as it may be.

The 'Witnus' Cloud

Meteorologists will tell you there are four main types of clouds: cirrus, nimbus, stratus, and cumulus. If you've read Hebrews 12:1, you'll agree that a cloud type could be added i.e. "the witnus cloud".

"Therefore, since we are surrounded by such a great cloud of witnesses, let us throw off everything that hinders and the sin that so easily entangles. And let us run with perseverance the race marked out for us." Hebrews 12:1

This is one of those verses in the Bible that makes my mind swirl with imagination as I picture loved ones cheering me on. I haven't run a race in many years, (I used to run x-country in high school believe or not), but one of the memories I do have was the line of people cheering me from the sidelines. It almost gave me an extra boost of energy to hear the cheering and the encouragement. "Keep going." "You're almost finished." "Don't slow down." Sometimes, in the quiet of the day, I'll imagine a cloud of witnesses encouraging me in my run of life.


This verse often comes to mind when I'm struggling with life's demands and questions of uncertainty fill my thoughts. And then I'll recall what the author states as fact: we're surrounded by a cloud of witnesses. Grandparents and parents, uncles and aunts, brothers and sisters - all who have run before us and who crossed the finish line. They didn't just get a participatory ribbon - 'a thanks for coming out' ribbon. No, they got first prize: a crown of salvation. And, as I imagine that as Jesus handed out the awards an anthem is played - Heaven's anthem, Glory to God in the Highest. And if you listen real close, you can hear "Ere zij God"! I can picture my Dad singing like it's Christmas Day.

At home, we have a table in the living room that's filled with pictures of family. Some are still with us, and others are "in the cloud". When I look at my grandparents, my Dad, and Wendi's Mom I'm not naïve to think that it was easy for them. Their struggles were as real and probably a lot harder than what I deal with. But I'm thankful for every person in those pictures and when I stop to look at them I can faintly hear "Keep going, Henry." "You're doing well." "Your crown awaits."