Ghosts of Africa

They will be there in the instants between my carefully planned appointments.

Invading my conscience with faded snaps of an
open, brown field, and a herd of 400 zebra,
tossing their heads swishing their tails...
Scattered giraffe,
straining their necks into the warm breeze,
Looking like far-off sailing ships against the
blue sky.

A rogue elephant or rhino crashing through the bush, with no need for stealth and a
giant crane circling to the ground
in silhouette against a setting sun.


I will wheel the car into the driveway, reach for my cell-phone, and they’ll be gone; all the animals, the scorching sun, dusty trails and bleached white bones, disappearing into the whirlpool of the present.


Then she comes...
Dressed in a dirty, stretched-out-of-shape tee-shirt that says,
“Aspen, Colorado”, on one side, and
“For the fun of it!” on the other.
This one is Sudanese,
but she could have been from Congo,
Burundi,
Rwanda,
Kenya,
Tanzania,
Uganda or Ethiopia.
She is breastfeeding a child in her arms,
while two others tug at the konga about her waist.
Her cheekbones are set high, and she has no teeth behind her lower lip.
A scar is on her forehead.
Her feet are cracked and dry, as
she has walked perhaps several hundred miles
to stand outside my office.
There’s no milk, there’s no ugali she says...
No husband, no home, no water, no clothes for the baby.
The small ones reach out and touch my hand,
then pull back immediately;
as though the white skin gave off an electric shock.
Their noses are running...they smell of urine.
Now, the mother’s eyes meet mine, and the despair in them falls over me like shadow.


Then the alarm near my pillow begins to drag me into the new day, and the shadow creeps away into some abyss and I’m thankful.
When I’m watching the TV, or rather looking at the screen and watching nothing at all; when the car pauses at an intersection; while the offering plate is making its tour down the aisle or when I’m staring blindly into a restaurant menu, I know that during these unguarded moments the images will return.


Shining mouths, singing atop their voices, in a foreign rhythm,
“Wamilele, wamilele, Mungu wa baraka ni Yesu Bwana!” 
(Eternal God of blessings, it is Christ the Lord)
Jacaranda trees, glowing purple, surrounded by a sweet mist, rising from the hot
sticky, tarmac street....
Seas of black faces, that peer at me with curiosity
as I spin the four-wheel drive through the market of Kikomba...
Elegant ladies walking gracefully down ancient footpaths,
with baskets of maize balanced on their heads...
Pickers, bent over a blanket of deep-green tea plants, their bright colored wraps,
dotting the Kericho country-side...


They will always be with me, these ghosts of Africa, haunting me like a welcomed song, learned long ago; the words lost to my mind, but their meaning fresh in my heart.

Finding The Way Home

Walks into the forest have mostly been a comfort to me.  I like to think of myself as adventuresome, not like Indiana Jones or something, but one who is usually drawn to the road less traveled.

Not all forests of my life have been filled with trees, some were built of concrete and steel, others were winding paths in my heart that darkened my mind with questions.

What comes after that bend in the path?  What happens if I take that alleyway?  Can I cut through the trees and bushes to my right and get home quicker?  

Recently however, I have discovered that although I am a person who enjoys the challenge of walking into the unknown, what I have seen in my heart is that I generally want to pick the time and location of the journey.  When it comes before I feel prepared or in a place not of my choosing, then, walks in the forest are not my favorite thing, and I have  some deep and unsettled feelings about them.  I believe the anxiety stems from this thought,  If I go down this path, will I be able to find my way home?

To some degree, I think that this was what was on Thomas' mind when he asked this question in John 14...

⁵ Thomas said to him, “Lord, we don’t know where you are going, so how can we know the way?”

⁶ Jesus answered, “I am the way and the truth and the life. No one comes to the Father except through me.

The disciples and Jesus had gone many places together.  Sometimes the journey was affirming, exciting and inspiring, but sometimes it was also hard, cold, dark, hurried and fearful.  The one preserving thought had always been this:  As long as Jesus is with us, He will always lead us home.  

But now the shadow comes.  In the verses before those quoted above, Jesus has just revealed that he is going to leave them.   He will be going ahead of them to his father's house to prepare a place for them.  He says that He will come back to get them and that they actually already know the way to where He is going.  Still, Jesus gives no directions on how to get there.  At least nothing that refers to geography.  His only directional help comes in verse 6, "I am the way..."  And it is enfolded by just one additional phrase....Trust in me.

What is the route?  "I am the way...Trust in me."

What are the landmarks?  "I am the way...Trust in me."

Is that to the North, South, East or West?  "I am the way...Trust in me."

Can I get that on mapquest or GPS?  "I am the way...Trust in me."

How long should it take to get there?  "I am the way...Trust in me."

Phew.  Even for someone who mostly likes forest wanderings, this seems very little instruction to go on.  It's one thing to deal with the journey and have faith when the silhouette of Jesus is walking the trail before you.  It's something completely different when He says I will go on ahead of you and prepare for your arrival, but you will walk the rest on your own.  

As "edgy" as I wish to think my life has been up until now, the truth is I have never strayed far enough away from home that I didn't think I could retrace my steps and return.  That has been my safety net; my memory of the journey past, and how I could follow it's trail of bread crumbs back to where things began.

Poor Thomas....Doubting Thomas...(the guy who has had to live through history with an adjective instead of a proper title before his name)...I think this was his major point of struggle also.  He kept up with the rest of group as long as he could see the way home, if only in his mind, and now Jesus had removed that reference point as well.   Now the whole thing was tied to nothing but two ideas, held together by someone who just told them He would be leaving.

"I am the way....Trust in me."

That's all we get?  That's all there is?  Is it enough to walk on?  Enough for us to find life in?  Enough to have peace?  There is a forest walk up ahead for all of us....somewhere, sometime down the road.  We might have advance knowledge of its coming, but maybe not.   I guess I am hearing Him say to me that the answers to these questions have to do with the depth of my relationship to the one giving the instruction and my belief that He will be as faithful in my future as He has been in my past.  Even in the moments that I was deeper into the forest than I realized at the time.  

Uncertainty is an empty well, waiting to be filled with something; hope, fear, perseverance, anger, faith....That empty well is me, and what it is filled with rests a lot on my own choosing.

Beethoven And Other Classics

     The room was very dark. Away from the bar, the music blared over the sound system. People were dancing in another corner of the room. Guys were dancing with girls, guys were dancing with guys, girls were dancing with girls. I looked to the hardwood finish on the counter, closed my eyes and whispered a simple prayer.

     “Jesus, I hope you know what you’re doing, ...please make something worthwhile come out of this time I have here.” I had joined a group of Portland area pastors on a Friday night attempting to minister in the downtown bar scene.

     I took a sip of my soda and began to try and engage the man seated next to me in conversation. It went slowly at first, but eventually he began to share about his life.

      He was a Jewish man. He had moved to the northwest from New Jersey when things had come to a head with his parents while living at home. A college-degree in biology, now hundreds of miles from home working as a custodian in a large office building. He spoke of loneliness. He had lived with a woman for the better part of three years but things just hadn’t worked out. With her gone there had been no one. His words were directed to me but his eyes looked downward in despair at the glass of beer in front of him. Then there was a flicker of happiness that surprised me when I in a desperate attempt to stimulate conversation, asked him if he had any pets.

      “Yes, I do” he said excitedly, “ I have two guinea-pigs.”

       I chuckled at seeing how excited he was.

      “Really, guinea-pigs!?”

     “Yes, they are such wonderful pets. I’ve had them for almost a year now. My apartment complex won’t allow dogs or cats, so this was the best I could do. They’re not like people, they don’t care how successful you are, or how much money you have, they just know who takes care of them and are thankful.”

     “I see ...” I said, trying to feign interest in the details of this man’s relationship to his rodents.

   “Their names are Beethoven and Bach,” he said and droned on for about 15 minutes on how interesting their sleeping habits were. I was mostly frustrated that we were getting a long way off from what I wanted to talk to him about, but all the while, I just nodded and listened, learning quite a bit more about guinea-pig care than I will ever put to a good use. Finally, he took a breath and then asked me what I was doing in Portland.

     “Well...” I began, and over the next couple minutes explained to him that I was a Christian and that I was a part of this ministry team roaming through the city on a Friday night, out to help lost souls like him and as I began to drone on, I could see him shrinking back into his drink. I stopped talking.

He had turned completely away from me.

     “Did I say something wrong?...I didn’t mean to offend you...I’m sorry...”

     Nothing. No response.

     I sat silent in my chair for a couple minutes. I prayed again, asking the Lord to help me build a bridge back to this man. My mind was spinning but I couldn’t think of anything to say, finally I almost blurted out, “So what do you feed those guinea-pigs anyway?”

      He turned and looked me straight in the face for the first time, as if to see if I really cared to hear his response.

     “Mostly they eat a ground meal I get at the pet store, but I like to give them carrots and celery sometimes, they really like that,” and off he went again telling me when and how to feed them. I wondered if he noticed my sigh of relief when he started talking again. I listened for a long time. But it was alright. For some reason I felt like there was going to be an opportunity still to share Jesus with this man. While he spoke I began to pray that God would give me a more comfortable transition, so I wouldn’t crash and burn like the first time. I was still praying for that opportunity when he suddenly stopped talking about his pets and said, 

     “You know, it’s hard for me to understand you Christians. Why do you worship someone who was killed almost 2000 years ago?”

     His question was so straight forward I thought at first that maybe he was just being sarcastic.

    “Um...well...that’s not the end of the story,” I said.

     He looked at me with sincere interest. 
    “I mean,....he rose from the dead.” Those words sounded so strange against the backdrop of cigarette smoke, dance music and the smell of beer. He just continued to look at me, waiting for me to continue.

     “Have you ever read the new testament?”
     He shook his head. I told him about the gospel story, my personal spiritual journey with Jesus and ended with why I was there sitting next to him. I watched carefully this time to see if my words were too many or too hard for him to hear. He drank in every syllable. And then I knew it was time to stop.

     He quietly nodded his head and then turned to his drink and emptied the glass. In very reverent tones he began to talk about the separation he felt from his parents and his sense of shame in not making them proud of him. He spoke of his dissatisfaction with his job and the hopelessness of his life.  Finally he said, 
      “If Jesus is really all that you’ve told me, I guess I’d sure like to meet him sometime too.”

     “All you have to do is say his name and He’s there,” I said.

     “I will remember that,” he answered.

    I glanced down to my watch. It was time for me to meet up with the other pastors. In fact I was already ten minutes late and not being familiar with the city wasn’t completely sure I knew how to get back to our meeting place.
     “I have to go now,” I said, still not wanting to leave.

    “It was really nice to talk with you.” I shook his hand and hesitantly began to move past him toward the door. He caught my coatsleave and I turned to look at him. His eyes were wet with tears.

    “Thanks for talking with me, “ he said, “And if you ever think about it, every once in awhile will you stop and say a prayer for a Jewish boy who never made his parents proud?”

     “I will,” I said.

     And I have... many times.

    I suppose that my experience in sharing with this man was a terrific learning opportunity in many ways. Of course sharing about our faith in a tavern or bar is quite a challenge. Yet there was a greater lesson that I learned through this conversation. I was so eager to share Jesus with someone that night, but not really interested in listening. Beethoven and Bach are names that I will probably never forget. Truth is, I can’t even remember the man’s name any more...just his pets’, but it took listening about those names to be able to share about, “the name above all names.”

    Everyone has a story. Most of the time if we will listen to theirs, I think we will have a better chance to tell His.

The Midnight Cry

“The dead in Christ shall rise to meet him in the air, and then those that remain, shall be quickly changed; in a moment....At the Midnight Cry, we’ll be going home!”

     These words cannot be spoken without my hearing the melody line of a song recorded by the Brooklyn Tabernacle Choir. The lead vocals would be sung by a young man who we have had the privilege of serving together with in ministry for several years. For four years worth of Easter programming our church closed the service with this song; partially because of the message of the song, and partially because our young friend sang the socks off it.

     I truly enjoyed hearing it each and every year. However, there was one year when it held a special significance. At a board meeting, one of our elders had shared a prayer request for a nine-year old boy who lived in his neighborhood and was dying of cancer. The boy’s name was Alex. I had prayed for this boy who came from a non-Christian home on several occasions, but having never met him my prayers were somewhat generic. That changed the night before Easter.

     Susan, the wife of the elder who originally brought us the prayer request, called a few months before Easter and told me that the family had decided to bring Alex home from the hospital and that it was possible that he may pass away within days. I called the family to tell them that if there was anything I could do to help them to please give me a telephone call. Their response was very to-the-point, “We will let you know.” Somehow, Alex hung on to life far beyond everybody’s expectations. Weeks went by, then a month, and still he was alive. As Easter approached, the whole church was praying for the boy. Susan called again and told me that she had walked across the street and invited him to “Eggstravaganza”, an outreach-type of event that our church sponsored on the Saturday before Easter. We had a massive egg-hunt in the playground area outside the church, followed by a mini-carnival inside the gym, with prizes and cotton candy, and brief appearance from our children’s choir. About half-way through the morning, Susan found me on the playground and excitedly said to me, “Alex is here with his Dad. I want you to come and meet them!.”

     So, a short time later I went inside the gym and scanned around the room, until I located a young boy in a wheel-chair and made my way over to him. I greeted the father first. He was understandably short on conversation. Then I greeted Alex. A week earlier he had informed his parents that he wanted to take up scuba diving. Alex was not short on conversation. We talked for about 8-10 minutes. He had a sack full of candy and Easter eggs that several of the kids in the church had contributed to. Despite his sallow skin and sunken eyes, you could tell he was enjoying himself. He was determined to do so.

     As I was readying to leave the boy, I said, “I’m glad to finally meet you Alex. So many of the people here at the church have been praying for you for a long time.”

     “Thank you,” he said.

     “It would be great if you could come to the Easter program tomorrow.”

     “We’ll be here!” Alex said.

     

     No hesitation. He responded so quickly it surprised me. I knew that his parents were not believers and were apprehensive about church involvement of any kind, so I tried to give his Father an out,               

     “Well, maybe you better talk it over with your Dad.”

    “We’ll be here!” he repeated.

     His Dad smiled at me weakly and I smiled back.

    That night my wife awoke around 2am and felt as though we should pray for Alex and his father. So we did. The next morning’s program went very well. When the second service started, we still had not seen Alex, but midway through the choir’s first number, I saw his father push him through the foyer doors and into the sanctuary. He moved the wheel chair around to the back row, all the way to the rear of the room and there they sat down.

     As the program came to it’s climax; a mix of music and personal stories of how Christ had brought several lives from despair to victory, we paused for a moment to allow those in the congregation to respond to the call of the Holy Spirit. Several came forward to the altar to pray. Then I asked for anyone who could not come forward, but wanted to open their hearts to Christ to raise their hand. Several hands shot up, including a spindly little one on the very back row. Alex prayed along with me as I led in a simple prayer of salvation. Then I left the platform and the choir finished up the service with Midnight Cry, followed by loud applause and the house lights going up.

     My wife spent some additional time talking with Alex’s dad as many milled around the boy while he bubbled with the excitement of being the center of attention. A short time later they were gone and we were clearing out ourselves as the next service was getting ready to start. I watched as Alex and his father went down the sidewalk toward their car, thinking of how Christ was going to give him a brand new body some day; one without cancer. Someday all of the struggle would be over for all of us… We’ll be quickly changed; in a moment.

     Alex died about ten days later. Somewhere there is an empty wheel-chair that a nine-year-old boy used to ride in, he doesn’t need it anymore, in fact, today he is busy scuba diving.

Building With Straw

I didn't grow up on bible stories.  I'm not whining about it, I loved my home and my family growing up, but that is just the reality.  We weren't a family that had its beginning as a people of faith.  So, bible stories weren't what we talked about much, if at all.

One story I do remember reading with my family is The Three Little Pigs.  Even today when I think of that story, I have a built-in angst for the two pigs who build houses out of substances "other than brick".    You can just see problems on the horizon.  Those little pigs slapping together their shacks with the big, bad wolf hiding in waiting.  The anticipation of pending disaster made my stomach churn a bit when I read the story as a child.

So, today I am a pastor.  In fact, one way or another I have worked in the church now for 30 years.  That thought is staggering to me.  I remember coming home to tell my parents that I was changing my major in college to pursue the vocation of

Youth Minister, and my father asked me, "Do they pay you to do that?" and I said, "I don't know....but I guess we're gonna find out."

I have read through the bible at least a few times now, and despite not growing up on its stories, a lot of the truths in it have shaped my life....my hopes as a Dad and as a husband.....as a man of God.   Yet, there are moments when I don't feel equipped to appropriately respond to the conflict before me. Whether it has to do with the conflict being played out between my grand-daughters in turmoil on the living room carpet or the conflict being played out between two warring nations being reported by one of the various news agencies on television.

If I think about it for a bit, I will usually find a place to stand, but it's not as easy as I'd wish most of the time.  It usually requires a bit more research into the situation than is in my nature to invest.  I guess that what I am saying is that learning the "mind of Christ" on things doesn't come with the immediacy that I thought I might attain by the time I was 50-something years of age.

I knew a long time ago that houses of brick were better than houses of straw.  I probably had that idea firmly set in my mind when I was 4 or 5 years old. But, since then, I have discovered that all things don't have such easy understandings.....I.e. Were there any socio-economic factors that were involved when the one little pig chose to build with straw?  I have lived in a place where unemployment ran 70 percent.  Many of the houses there were built with straw, mud, and tin.

The point?  I am finding that more often than not I do not have the absolute answer as quickly on my tongue as I wish it were.  In fact, as I get older, answers seem to take longer to come to me than in the past; a trend I had expected would be the reverse.  So, instead of tossing out "my truths" as quick solutions to the dilemmas that surround me I tend to listen more and talk less....then pray that the Spirit of Christ will lean into those conflicts and that those involved will hear what they need to find resolution.  Otherwise, when I throw my quick opinions into discussions of significance,  I feel like I'm tossing band-aids out a car window to people who need surgery.  Ultimately, I believe that the message of Jesus has solutions for all that ails us.  However, that message isn't always found with "google-like" immediacy.  In John's gospel, Peter voices his mixed confusion and commitment to Christ, after an issue had come up that led many to walk away.

John 6:67-69

The Message (MSG)

^66-67 After this a lot of his disciples left. They no longer wanted to be associated with him. Then Jesus gave the Twelve their chance: “Do you also want to leave?”

^68-69 Peter replied, “Master, to whom would we go? You have the words of real life, eternal life. We’ve already committed ourselves, confident that you are the Holy One of God.”

I think that today I understand Peter's words more than ever before.  What I see him saying as he watches others leave the group of followers is this, "I don't know the answer to this situation. In fact I don't know the answer to lots of things, but Jesus, I trust you and I believe you know the answers, and that as I travel with you and try to learn from you, you will explain things to me, and absolutely I know this.....No one else understands what life is meant to be about like you do.  So, I have no interest in following anyone or anything else." 

Life's questions are tough.  Answers are hard.  Rarely does anything boil down to something as easy as, "Brick is good; straw is bad."

Still, there is one who can draw us forward, keep us steady, bring us toward a solution that will last, a solution that has compassion, mercy, love, truth, justice and grace as it's foundation.  This is the one simple part of the process for me, if I can just pull myself away from the fracas long enough to find focus... and listen to him.  :)

Knock, Knock, Jokes

Our children couldn’t be more different if you had planned it that way. Ariel, is dark-haired, dark complected. Autumn, is fair-skinned with beautiful reddish-blonde hair that frames her face in big, rolling curls.

Shortly after Autumn’s fourth birthday, we went as a family to eat at a restaurant near home. The waitress came to our table ready to take our order and looking at our small group announced, “Remember, the little one is free!”

Autumn indignantly responded, “I’m not free, I’m four!”

We all shared a good laugh.

Up until she was about six, Autumn’s favorite joke was one that her sister taught her, it went like this,

“Knock, knock?”

“Who’s there?”

“Banana.”

“Banana who?”

“Knock, knock?”

“Who’s there?”

“Banana.”

“Banana who?”

“Knock, knock?”

“Who’s there?”

“Banana.”

“Banana who?”

“Knock, knock?”

“Who’s there?”

“Orange.”

“Orange who?”

“Orange you glad I didn’t say banana!?”

We laughed….at least the first half-dozen times we heard it. Something tells me that when she is closer to forty than she is to four, that joke will come up again at the dinner table and we will all have another good laugh.

Ariel is our oldest. As much as Autumn wishes differently, Ariel always will be the oldest. She has had her moments as well. I can remember when she was about five. We were sitting in the evening service at the church where we were the youth pastors. Ariel was coloring on a picture while sitting in my lap. Then she stopped for a moment and studied the pastor for a long while, with a curious expression on her little, round face. Her eyes traced the microphone cord from its outlet on the platform to the back of the pastor’s buttoned suit jacket. She squinted at the lapel mic, connected to his tie for a moment and then retraced the cord with her eyes back to its origin. With one of her tiny hands, she reached up and pulled down on my neck. Then she moved toward me slowly, her eyes still on the pastor as she whispered into my ear,

“How does he get that cord out of his bottom?”

I can’t recall the pastor’s message that night. However, I can remember what Ariel was coloring a picture of.

I can remember because, like Autumn’s favorite joke, Ariel drew the same picture for about three years. It was a picture of a home with a Mom, Dad, and two girls. There was always smoke coming out of the chimney on the house, a blue sky with a “smiley-faced” sun in one corner and a rainbow in the other. I asked her once why she always drew pictures like that, and she responded matter-of-factly, “Because those are the kind of days I like!”

That’s really not bad theology.

“…whatever is lovely…think about such things.” – Phil. 4:8

I learned something from a friend of mine when I was a young Dad. I have used this bedtime conversation many times with my children as they have grown. They complain of the repetition sometimes, but not always, and never very strongly. It goes like this:

“Autumn (or Ariel) do you know what?”

“What Dad?”

“If I could choose from all the girls in the whole wide world…”

“Yes, Daddy?”

“I mean all the little girls in the United States, and all the girls in Africa, and all the girls in South America and Japan and China, and all the little girls in every country and city and state in all the world…do you know what?”

“No Daddy, What?”

“If I could choose from all of those little girls, who would be the big sister, (or little sister) in our family, …do you know who I would choose?”

Now, the very first time they both shook their head. In the 748 times since then, there has become a bit less suspense to this line of questioning, but I still think that they enjoy hearing me say, “I WOULD CHOOSE YOU!!!”

Usually this is followed by some laughter, a few kisses on the cheek and the “tucking in” process.

My heart is warmed by this wonderful memory, but even more so by the memory of them doing the exercise with me, “Daddy, if I could choose from all the Daddys in the world…”

There comes between us during this event, an understanding of the many times we have failed in our efforts to love each other to the best of our abilities. They know that I have failed them at times as a Father. There have been times that they know that they have also fallen short in their efforts to obey their parents. But after these kinds of moments together, it is almost as if we begin anew with each other. At that exact moment, all is forgiven and tomorrow is another day. I need that as much as they do. In fact without question, there have been times when they have been the teacher, and I the student. In between “knock, knock” jokes and crayola drawings I have learned a lot from these two.

We were walking alone together, Ariel and I. I was sort of “tight-rope” walking the curb around our block and she was coming up behind me. She was having a hard time and could only manage a step or two and then she would lose her balance and she would have to step off, get her footing and then get back on again. I was breaking the news to her about our upcoming move to a new church. It would be hard for her. A great deal of uncertainty hid in my heart as well. We had been with the same pastor for all of her life except the first few months. The pastor’s family had a little boy that she had been best friends with the whole time. She was only a couple months older than him. We were discussing the leaving of that comfort zone while we walked. Finally, I stepped down beside her and grabbed hold of her left hand and held it tight in mine, steadying her. A great, big smile came to her face as she walked the curbing with confidence now. It was such a wonderfully contagious smile that it flew over and landed on my face as well. We walked together hand in hand and then I stopped and turned to her, “It’s a lot easier to walk when Daddy holds your hand isn’t it?”

I barely had the words out of my mouth when I realized that the Lord was talking to me through this same sentiment. I picked her up, tears in my eyes and tossed her high in the air. (I can’t do that anymore, at least not so high). We hugged, finished our tour around the block and walked into the house.

Thank you Lord for a family that mirrors who you are back to me in a way that I can understand. You know that each one, from the Mommy to the “little sissy” are exactly who I needed that I might become the Daddy and the husband that they also needed…

I Miss Her Most at Suppa Time

The funeral had long been over.

         There was no graveside service.

                The sanctuary was empty but for Clarence.

He sat in a pew about a third of the way back,

        on the left side, completely

                                                        alone.

It was my first ever service as a real pastor. 

I was 23, he was 73.

I tried to look busy while I gathered together the little sheets of

                                      paper that described the life of the woman,

                whose body lay in a casket at the head of the room.

Clarence leaned his chin forward against his palms.

His elbows rested on his pants.

His face was not sad, 

                  just empty.

He stared in silence at the casket.

Finally I came over to him and sat down in the pew in front of his.

He didn't move his eyes. I looked over my shoulder and then back to him.

                               "Are you gonna be okay Clarence?"

He very slowly turned his face to mine and said,

              "You know, I think I will miss her most at suppa time."

And when he said the words, "suppa time",

                                                          his eyes sparkled.

The corners of his mouth turned upward into a smile.

I knew that he was remembering years of

being together with a woman for far more than sharing a meal.

There were times when there was laughter.

The noise of children…

And the quiet of a setting sun.

There were days of struggle,

Discussions about medical bills, and prayers of thanksgiving.

I could see all of those cares and conversations, 

revealed in the sharing of that one sentence.

I had nothing to add.

So, I nodded my head, patted his shoulder and left the room.

But I have taken with me, one thought that has rooted itself in my life today.

          We think the big things are what we will remember.

          We think that it is the moments that we carefully plan, that will stick with us.

          We think that we can ignore the common days because they will not matter,

          And that as long as we really celebrate the times that are set aside for

                                                                                                                  grander purposes,

Our memories will be full.

But through Clarence,

I have come to believe that exactly the opposite is actually the truth.

May we all search through those common days,

for the breadth of life that we were meant

to find there.