TIME TO REDECORATE?

ON A SUNDAY NIGHT, a man, along with his soul, stumbled into a church. A friend of mine was the music director at this church which was located downtown, a stone’s throw from the bus station. He was telling me the story, which was not unusual; this was not the first wayfarer to venture in to this church.

The man was clearly under the influence of something: jug wine, mis-taken medication or maybe a spirit of some kind; holy or otherwise. This was a Baptist church, and a time, back a few years ago, when Baptist churches gathered on Sunday night and each service ended in an alter call. On this night the wanderer wandered down the aisle and announced to the church that he was there to “redecorate his life!”

He wasn’t far off. On the little card designed to note any and all alter call responses, you would write your name and check the box for the type of decision you were making, one of the choices was: Rededication.

Redecoration / Rededication… There’s probably room for both.

The other day, I received a message from an e-magazine, one I had written for a few times called “The Curator”. I clicked through to the magazine and read a couple of those old articles. One in particular, written ten years ago brought back memories and surprised me with how real it seems to me still and how relevant the themes of restoration, redecoration, rededication, recreation and renewal are, and how maybe I’m in need.

I thought about copying and pasting the piece here for those who might want to read it, but I may have given sole publication rights to the magazine. So, I’ll include the link to the article here in case you would like CHECK IT OUT.

The Call of the Mud Angels by Dave Fuller

SHOT OR NOT

ROLES CHANGE, or maybe it’s more accurate to say roles are layered on us.

I started life as a son, then a few years later the role of brother was added on. If you could ask my mom and dad how well I played these roles, hopefully I would get a B- or C+ (if you’re grading on the curve). My brother, on my role as big brother, would be more harsh if he were being fair about it. He had a couple of close calls with death (without intent or malice) from his big brother.

One had to do with me trying to create my own entry into the school science fair, third grade, best I remember. I cut the female end off of an extension cord, stripped the insulation back a bit and taped the bare ends of the wire to a small metal folding chair. I had my little brother all strapped in and was ready to plug in my experiment, testing the thesis of the electric chair, when my dad saw what’s was going on and saved my little brother, leaving me without a science fair project.

The other had to do, innocently enough, with me experimenting with making chlorine gas. Now that I think about it, it was just about this time that my parents began to encourage me to explore the arts rather than science.

While we’re on the subject of experiments, I want to give a shout out to Jonas Salk and Albert Bruce Sabin who, in the 1950s, developed separate vaccines—one from killed virus and the other from live virus—to combat the dreaded disease polio. We’ll come back to them.

The next role layer for me was that of husband when My Amazing-Missus said Yes!! (I’ve added both of the exclamation points, I don’t know if she was actually that excited.)

Then in 1981, Corey was born and I became Dad. And then in 1987, Kyle was born and I was Dad to two wonderful boys.

Over the years I’ve had many non-familial roles. For many of those I can’t believe how blessed I have been to get to play.

In November 2008, an event occured so profound that my next role even came with a name change. Our first Grand-Girl was born and I became Pops. Now there are seven: five girls, two boys. This is a role I cherish so much I started keeping a journal about it all. Over time that became a blog—a blog about this role—About being Pops.

That’s a long swirling introduction to the point of this particular post. It is a post to say YES, I WILL TAKE THE COVID VACCINATION AS SOON AS SOMEONE WILL GIVE IT TO ME.

The oldest of our two Grand-Sons is Malachi. He’s three. On the rare occasions we get to see him and the others these days because of the virus, departing is always hard. Malachi has these beautiful curious eyes that look deep in you. His mouth is always in a sort of half smile.

MALACHI AND POPS

Every time we have to leave after a visit, he looks through my eyes and into my heart and says, “Can I go to yours [sic] house?”

My Amazing-Missus and I were talking about the exciting news of a vaccine potential and she asked if I would be willing to take an early version of it. I told her, “All I have to do is picture Malachi asking, “Can I go to yours house?” and they can shoot anything they want into any vein they choose. I AM READY!

I have an important role to play. Being Pops gives meaning and significance to my life. I can’t do it if I’m on a ventilator or worse. I know, I know. Some say the vaccine could be riskier than the disease.

When I was about five years old, my parents lined me up with hundreds of other kids at the elementary school to get a sugar cube soaked with a dose of live polio virus. Was it dangerous? Of course it was. Was it worth it? Of course it was. Were my parents terrified? I’m sure they were. They had a role to play. They decided that love meant trusting science and praying for the best.

So shoot me.

STOLEN

IT ISN’T THE GRINCH THIS TIME. So, who or what is stealing Christmas and Thanksgiving and so many other treasured times and traditions.

It would be easy just to say: Covid. But New Zealand, much of Canada and others have shown Covid to be containable. That doesn’t matter though.

Here, where we live, who we are, virus spread has caused us to miss watching our Grandkids at the Hinton Fair, and piano recitals and dance recitals. You might think I’m being sarcastic. Nope. I actually love recitals.

Our kids have been wonderfully understanding. They know old Pops is old and wired shut after heart surgery a few years back. They have found ways for us to be with them in the safest ways possible. Through love, creativity, grace, frustration, prayer and cursing we’ve gotten from March to November.

I know, I know. Many will say I am stupidly overreacting. That this is not real, just made up and politically driven, or, as some believe, “we’ve turned the corner and it will just disappear soon.” I’m happy being a live and well stupid overreactor.

Each year we gather with our kids on the Saturday after Thanksgiving. We eat, play, watch TV and live like we’re thankful, because we are, without taking that for granted. We all gather round for a family picture which we will have printed and sent along with our annual Christmas card to a long list of people, many of which probably say, “Why are these people still mailing Christmas cards and why do they think we would want a picture of their family?”

At some point, during holiday-time My Amazing-Missus will lay out for the kids an abundance of building materials (candy and frosting) and the basic structure so they can all make their very own gingerbread house. No rules. You get to make it just like you want to.

It is a beautifully free and creative process. It’s good that our clan is good at that because it is going to take some creativity to celebrate the holidays this year in a safe and sacrificial way. But if any crew can do it—ours can.

Here are some of the ideas we’re tossing around: Mimi (aka: My Amazing-Missus) is strategizing how to make a gingerbread house building kit for each our two groups: Corey-Kara-Karlee-Harper-Nora and Kyle-Brooke-Haddi-Everly-Malachi-Jeremiah. This year we’ll sit back and watch the fun on Zoom or FaceTime. Then when it comes bedtime we’ll rejoice just a bit that the kids are at their own houses high from all the sugar they’ve consumed that should have gone into the building of their house but went into them instead.

We’ll watch the weather closely and hope for an unseasonably warm day when we can travel to see them and spend time together outside. Maybe we’ll tail-gate around a fire, eat turkey hot dogs with chili, make s’mores and open gifts. Maybe we’ll sing a song or two and we’ll read that story—the one about where it all started; in a manger.

And that important family picture? In our bunch we have photographers, Lightroom experts, and one who teaches Photoshop for a living (along with a few other subjects).

We’ll be fine, and Thankful and Merry. Who knows? Maybe a new tradition will emerge.

L to R: Malachi, Haddi, (Jeremiah), Karlee, Nora, Harper, Everly

WAIT UP FOR ME

I’m not afraid of THE dark. I am afraid of dark. That darkness that comes with dishonesty, mistrust, deceit, hate, disease… I am afraid of that dark.

We heard glass breaking and a woman screaming. I was eleven or twelve. It was a summer Saturday night, just beyond dusk. We were probably chasing fireflys. The screams were coming from the house next door to my aunt and uncle’s. We went closer for some reason. At that point the darkness was our friend. Then we could see the flames. Her house was on fire. We ran for help. Soon the night sky was split with flashing lights and sirens. I did not want to go to sleep that night. I could still smell smoke and hear that woman. If I closed my eyes, whatever other terrors the dark held might come. Maybe it was a child’s dose of PTSD. I dreaded nightfall for days and weeks after that.

Sometimes I still do.

As I’ve written before, I got a close look at the late 60s. I was in Detroit during race riots and in Washington D.C. during Nixon’s innaugural parade. I saw what went on behind the scenes at that event. It was a rock-hard contrast to the celebratory facade on the party side of the parade.

But this; this divisivness, this dehumanization, this darkness. Is it the demise of the dream?

I’m not fatalistic. I may be a cynic, maybe an accidental malcontent but I’m not a doomsday soothsayer. I know “the darkness hour is just before the dawn”. God gives us proof of that at least 365 times every year.

Still, just as my twelve year-old self dreaded the dark after that fire, my 60-something self despises the Dark in this current dumpster fire we call 2020. But I know this:

“Blessed are those who mourn, for they will be comforted.”

— Jesus

I know this empirically and existentially. I know it spiritually and faithfully, I know it for me and I know it for you. I know it in light and in dark. “Lord I believe. Help me with my unbelief.”

The story is told of Robert Louis Stevenson and his childhood fascination with lamplighters. Apparently back in the day of gas street lamps, a lamplighter, or leerie, would walk the streets with a ladder and torch, lighting the lights. Stevenson was a sickly kid and would stand at the window at dusk and watch the lamplighter. His father walked in his room one night and saw young Robert at the window. He asked him what he was looking at and Robert said, “I’m watching this man knock holes in the darkness.”

Louis would later write this poem.

The Lamplighter
Robert Louis Stevenson

My tea is nearly ready and the sun has left the sky;
It’s time to take the window to see Leerie going by;
For every night at teatime and before you take your seat,
With lantern and with ladder he comes posting up the street.

Now Tom would be a driver and Maria go to sea,
And my papa’s a banker and as rich as he can be;
But I, when I am stronger and can choose what I’m to do,
Oh Leerie, I’ll go round at night and light the lamps with you!

For we are very lucky, with a lamp before the door,
And Leerie stops to light it as he lights so many more;
And O! before you hurry by with ladder and with light,
O Leerie, see a little child and nod to him tonight!

Verse can be so illuminating.

A man named John Claypool was an inspiration to me. I heard John speak several times and have read his books. John contended that every human needs two things for emotional and spiritual survival: light and warmth. Light he said is illumination—being able to see something clearly and honestly. Warmth he said is companionship—someone at your side.

Verse can be so illuminating. It can also be warmth.

Read these lyrics from a song by Amos Lee. In fact, read them out loud. Then put on your very best set of headphones and watch Amos sing the song on this YouTube video.

When you cannot get to sleep at night
Taunted by that new daylight
When you just can't sleep before the morn
And you do not feel reborn

Wait up for me
Wait up for me
I'll be coming home
So you don't have to be alone

When you're lost out in this world
And you feel you've come undone

Wait up for me

“I will not leave you as orphans. I am sending a comforter. ”

— Jesus