Leaning

Where words fail, music speaks.
—Hans Christian Andersen

You know those times when you’ve been napping deeply and your mind sort of starts to wake up before your body does? In fact, it’s almost as if you are outside of yourself in a state that allows you to be aware of your dreams and at the same time what is really happening.

A few weeks ago, I was trying to wake from a nap and my mind (with the help of cough medication) was holding me down. The TV was playing in the background. I could hear the old hymn, “Leaning of the Everlasting Arms”. I wondered if this was IT--If I was slipping across some threshold.

The hymn arrangement was beautiful. It was being played as a meditation on an awe-inspiring truth rather than something like a Sousa march, the way Southern Baptists sing it.

Finally, I awoke sufficiently to realize the song was playing as a part of an advertisement for Guinness beer. WHAT?!

Let’s get something straight right here. This little essay is not about condemning or condoning anything. So, with that said…

I know this, we all need to lean sometimes and the best place to lean is on the Everlasting Arms. I know this too: sometimes those everlasting arms take on human form: family, friends, each other.

No doubt; sometimes in the corner bar, people lean on things that will ultimately fail them. No doubt; sometimes in the corner church, people lean on religion that will ultimately fail them.

God created us as people who need people; as people who need to lean.

Whether at church or the neighborhood pub, think of how true the words to this little song about a place called “Cheers” are.

Making your way in the world today 
Takes everything you've got; 
Taking a break from all your worries 
Sure would help a lot. 
Wouldn't you like to get away? 

Sometimes you want to go 

Where everybody knows your name, 
and they're always glad you came. 
You wanna be where you can see, 
our troubles are all the same 
You wanna be where everybody knows 
Your name.

Leaning on the Everlasting Arms was written by Anthony J. Showalter in the late 1800s, inspired by Deuteronomy 33:27: "The eternal God is thy refuge, and underneath are the everlasting arms".

I have no idea what Mr. Showalter would have thought of his tune being used in a Guinness ad. Maybe he knew of Mr. Guinness and wouldn’t have minded. Sometimes we make assumptions you know. Sometimes we pre-judge. Here’s an interesting article about Guinness himself:

Click to read: The Story of God and Guinness in Relevant Magazine

This “Empty Chair” ad, I’ve watched it several times now. I’m not even sure it’s really about Guinness beer. I think it’s about leaning, and if it is, I can’t think of a better song than the one written by Mr. Showalter.

Certainly if there is an Honorable Mention for "Best Leaning Song Ever" if would have to go to the classic by Bill Withers:

Sometimes in our lives
We all have pain, we all have sorrow
But if we are wise
We know that there's always tomorrow

Lean on me when you're not strong
And I'll be your friend, I'll help you carry on
For it won't be long
'Til I'm gonna need somebody to lean on

Please, swallow your pride
If I have things you need to borrow
For no one can fill those of your needs
That you won't let show

You just call on me, brother, when you need a hand
We all need somebody to lean on
I just might have a problem that you'll understand
We all need somebody to lean on

CLICK HERE to watch “The Empty Chair”. 
 

Be Glad You're Not A Lion

I AM THANKFUL. And sometimes I am thankfuller (read this and that will make some sense).

For one thing I am thankful I was never drafted by the Detroit Lions.

Here’s the thing about being a drummer in a marching band in a very long parade—you get blisters, blisters that break and ooze and bleed. By the end of a parade your hands look something like a turkey leg bone after the big meal. While most of the band members play only occasionally during the course of the parade, the drum line must play the  e-n-t-i-r-e  time. 

I commented on this reality within ear shot of my high school band director; once. The former army drill sergeant-turned band director pulled the cigar from the corner of his mouth, stuck his baton into my chest and said, “Suck it up kid. It’s an occupational hazard.” (The cigar part may only be real in my over-dramatized remembrance of the event.)

Although I had no idea what an occupational hazard was, I now had a working definition. If I could find my Funk & Wagnalls I’m sure it would say something about a risk or condition inherent in a given occupation.

So before you decide to be a bass drummer in the marching band, count the costs. About three miles in, that sucker gets heavy and your hands will bleed, and your shoes will be covered in horse crap, because the band always get placed right behind the 100-members of the county stampede club.

It’s kind of like being drafted by the Detroit Lions. (Not that I would know anything about that.) Even though you’re excited, you will suddenly realize that, no matter what, you’ll have to work on Thanksgiving.

Since 1934, every Thanksgiving with a very few exceptions in the late-30’s, the Lions have played on Thanksgiving Day.

[image from rantsports.com used without permission]

Let me say to all the Detroit Lions and you poor people in retail who have to go in and work on Thanksgiving, “Suck it up kid. It’s an occupational hazard.” JUST KIDDING!

I’m sorry you have to work, but we need an NFL game to play in the background while we sleep, and apparently, some just can’t wait until Friday to get their shopping on.

Don’t blame me though, Wal-Mart associates. I’m not the reason you’re working on Thanksgiving (or any other day for that matter). And for that I’m thankful.

I am also thankful for some others, those who serve, who don’t get to have Thanksgiving off—like my youngest son. Because of his work with the less law-abiding of our citizenry, he has to be on duty. Apparently, like football and shopping; crime doesn’t take a holiday.

So, if you’re working on Thanksgiving, thank you. If it helps remember this: while your occupational hazard is costing you a day off, it is far less tragic than the hazard of the poor old turkey. 

Gobble-Gobble.

I Used To Be Pretty

Several years ago, a friend and I would have breakfast most every morning at a little joint known for their good breakfasts. As a rule, we sat at the same table, ordered the same thing from the same waitress: a young Vietnamese girl named Kim.

Because I really like to know people’s stories, I would ask Kim about hers. She came to the USA, as many have, to study. Her story was particularly interesting to me because she came from North Vietnam. Her father was a professor and taught for a time in Moscow.

Anyway… we went from the usual customer/waitperson conversation like, “Want the usual?” “Yes, please.” to a wonderful friendship. Kim came to our house where I tried to fix comfort food for her. I went to the Asian market with a recipe for pho that I found on the internet. Two elderly asian women, detecting my ignorance, helped me find the right ingredients and gave me instructions—none of which I could understand. Kim appreciated the effort; I think. She suggested that the next time we should have burgers, and we did.

The friendship grew. It grew to the point that when we collaborated with some other friends to start a house-church, Kim joined us. She asked if she could invite a few friends and I told her, yes, that’s what this is about.

So the next Sunday she showed up with friends. I was surprised; not that she had actually brought friends, but to see that her friends were an older, anomalous couple named Page and Dicksy. This was great because we were a pretty eccentric bunch anyway.  We were age diverse, culturally diverse, socio-economically diverse, politically diverse and so on.

As it turned out, all of these weird ingredients came together to make a pretty good stew. I didn’t know though, just how powerful this little tribe was until just lately.

I’ve watched them bring compassion, knowledge, expertise, gifts, talents, time, determination and sheer willpower to bear in a situation that desperately needed a solution.

I wish I could tell you all about Page and Dicksy, but for now, you need to know this: they were basically only-children and had no children of their own. For the most part, our little band of believers became their clan.

I wish I could tell you all about the players in this saga; people, that life and God have equipped in ways that have made them a Dream Team for times such as these.

Recently, Page passed away. Dicksy instantly became alone and essentially homeless.

(Oh, believe me it is a story.) The Dream Team stepped in, became Dicksy’s family, planned, funded and conducted Page’s funeral. They found Dicksy a home in a retirement living center and set her up very nicely indeed.

Photo by Molly Hennesy. Taken at Fort Reno, Oklahoma.

They continued to visit her and care for her which was no easy duty. Dicksy’s mother as it turns out, was apparently a colorful character in her own right, at one time married to a country music pioneer. On her deathbed she charged Dicksy with the responsibility of caring for all her worldly treasures. Dicksy took that very, very, very seriously. In her new little retirement home she continued to worry and fret about her stuff. Always the stuff.

Isn’t it funny how treasures become stuff, that becomes junk, that becomes crap, that becomes dust.

Following her husband’s death, a couple of things happened: one, Dicksey became a liberated woman; again (it was not the first time though, that she had become liberated. I’ve seen the pictures). For those of us that knew her, she always wore a wig, a very unflattering one. As soon as Page passed, she took off the wig and threw it away. “I never liked that old thing. Page wanted me to wear it because it made me look younger.”

I’m no expert on grief, but weirdly enough the guy that wrote the book on grief—literally, is the leader of our little band. As an observer, it seemed to me that for Dicksy there was a mix of grief, obsession over her stuff, and fretting, that all combined, bringing her to a sort of defeat.

My Amazing-Missus, who has truly been amazing by being herself in all of this, was with Dicksy when she had her 89th birthday, just a few days after Page’s death. By this time Dicksy had been moved to a rehabilitation unit. A physical therapist came to her room. Arlene told the young man, “Today is Miss Dicksy’s birthday.” “Happy Birthday,” he said.

Dicksy’s reply to him was, “I used to be pretty.” In a few days she was dead.

Her funeral is tomorrow. Once again the Dream Team is busy taking care of details, planning what will be a beautiful memorial service. Afterward, we will gather and remember Page and Dicksy. We’ll laugh at the craziness. And we’ll marvel at the Providence of God. And hopefully we will understand, a little more deeply, that to God: we are all still pretty.

---

Earlier I mentioned that our leader, Doug Manning literally wrote the book on grief. This is the book I’m speaking of. I highly recommend it.

Beautifuller

The band (a small group of very talented, humble musicians) was playing, the stained glass windows colored the light as it came through; it all had a beauty to it. To make it beautifuller I was sitting next to Karlee, at 5 years-old, our oldest grand-girl.

The words to the song the band was singing were projected on a screen at the front of the church. One of those words was “beautiful”. Karlee pointed out to her Mimi that she knew that word. Then she took an offering envelope and a little pencil from the pew rack and wrote the word to prove it.

She wrote the word again and then added an “ler” to the end of it. She explained to me, “See, Pops, normally you would say, ‘more beautiful’ but I wrote ‘beautiful-ler’, so it has my last name ‘Fuller’ in it.”

She went on to add a little cloud and rainbow as if to give us a visual reference for “beautifuller”.

From the 5 year-old hand of Karlee Fuller

Now I won’t insult your intelligence by trying to convince you that this post is largely about anything but an opportunity to brag about my granddaughter, but there is more to it. Indulge me.

The thing about kids is that they see more beautifuller than we do. There is still a wonder and curiosity stirring in them that causes them to be fully alert, asking, “Why, Pops; Why?”

Take the beauty of the colors that nature is offering us right now. I’ve seen autumn sixty-four times now—I get it. The theme song of the bored and cynical should be: “Been There, Done That”.

I have a certificate in a box of treasures my mom gave me that says I was enrolled in the “Cradle Roll” of the Brookside Baptist Church of Tulsa, Oklahoma, when I was just weeks old. Last Sunday morning I sat in what could have been church service number ten-thousand-plus for me. (64 years times 52 weeks times three, for two service on Sundays and one on Wednesday, not counting revivals, camps and vacation Bible school.) I’m not complaining, bragging or expecting a medal of some kind; I’m just saying…

Some times it takes a 5 year-old, to say, “Look Pops! It’s Beautifuller.” And when I do look—she’s right!

I just finished a wonderful book by Wendell Berry, “Jayber Crow”. I highly recommend it. Maybe you won’t read it but at least read this excerpt. This is written in Jayber’s voice. He is the bachelor barber and church janitor in a small town in Kentucky: 

     In general, I weathered even the worst sermons pretty well. They had the great virtue of causing my mind to wander. Some of the best things I have ever thought of I have thought of during bad sermons. Or I would look out the windows. In winter, when the windows were closed, the church seemed to admit the light strictly on its own terms, as if uneasy about the frank sunshine of this benighted world. In summer, when the sashes were raised, I watched with a great, eager pleasure the town and the fields beyond, the clouds, the trees, the movements of the air—but then the sermons would seem more improbable. I have always loved a window, especially an open one.
     What I liked least about the service itself was the prayers; what I liked far better was the singing. Not all of the hymns could move me. I never liked “Onward Christian Soldiers” or “The Battle Hymn of the Republic.” Jesus’ military career has never compelled my belief. I liked the sound of the people singing together, whatever they sang, but some of the hymns reached inside me, all the way to the bone: “Come, Thou Fount of Every Blessing,” “Rock of Ages,” “Amazing Grace,” “O God, Our Help in Ages Past.” I loved the different voices all singing one song.
     I thought that some of the hymns bespoke the true religion of the place. The people didn’t really want to be saints of self-deprivation and hatred of the world. They knew that the world would sooner or later deprive them of all it had given them, but still they liked it. What they came together for was to acknowledge, just by coming, their losses and failures and sorrows, their need for comfort, their faith always needing to be greater, their wish (in spite of all words and acts to the contrary) to love one another and forgive and be forgiven, their need for one another’s help and company and divine gifts, their hope (and experience) of love surpassing death, their gratitude. I loved hearing them sing “The Unclouded Day” and “Sweet By and By”.
     And in times of sorrow when they sang “Abide with Me,” I could not raise my head.

Thank you Karlee. You have made your old Pops see beautifuller.

"The pursuit of truth and beauty is a sphere of activity in which we are permitted to remain children all our lives."  —Albert Einstein