Prayer

At the winding down point of a gathering, my siblings, parents, and I were sitting in the front room of my folks’ house in Berne, Indiana talking about God. Now there’s nothing terribly unusual about that, but this conversation went down a rather unexpected path.

For reasons I don’t entirely understand, I’m typically the one answering questions and leading the conversation. Perhaps because I’m the oldest. Perhaps because I’m “the preacher”, but then again, so is my brother, so that doesn’t make sense.

Regardless, on this occasion I was the inquisitor and my Dad the answer man. Frankly, that doesn’t make much sense either. I gave my heart to Jesus when I was just a kid. Dad, who stepped unsteadily into his eighty first year this past July, only gave his heart to Jesus four years ago. He rarely has much to say during these post family get together days . . . but not this day!

A conundrum that I’ve kept locked in one of the recesses of my brain is why God seems to prevent a tragedy on the one hand, yet ignores and allows tragedy on the other hand. Or why God miraculously heals one person from some awful illness, yet others die from that same illness. How and why does He make these distinctions?

I’ve raised that question on numerous occasions, in just as numerous group settings, gaining insight following each conversation, yet having never walked away satisfied, never quite feeling like my question had been answered. I raised that same question on this particular late Sunday afternoon, had barely gotten the question out of my mouth when my Dad blurted, “Prayer! It’s prayer. My mother’s and your mother’s continued prayers are why I’m a Christian today. That’s what makes the difference”

He was sitting to my left, and I turned and sort of stared at him . . . speechless.

I’m still a little speechless. Is the answer really that simple? Yes, it is; then again, no it isn’t.

My Grandmother Hartman died less than a month shy of her 75^th birthday. Family lore has it that she and Grandpa Hartman gave their hearts to Jesus when my Dad was just a boy. Assuming she started praying for her son almost as soon as she met Jesus, she prayed for him from 1946 (Dad would have been 10) right up until her death in 1980, for 34 years, and maybe longer.

My folks got married in May of 1956. Mom gave her heart to Jesus when I was five or six. She’s been praying for her kids and husband from 1961 or 1962 right up to this very day. So someone(s) had been faithfully praying for my Dad to give his heart to Jesus for at least 66 years before he actually did so, and according to him, it was those prayers that brought him to that decision.

So yes, it really does appear to be as simple as the act of entreating God for His influence and intervention; yet it’s as difficult as decades of faithfulness in our entreaties. Dad’s Mother never lived to witness the answer to her prayers, yet there that answer sits, right now, in that chair in Berne, Indiana.

As you leave the Grand Traverse Memorial Gardens in Traverse City, Michigan, where my paternal grandparents are buried, you’ll find yourself looking at the back of the entrance sign which quotes Alfred Tennyson; “More things are wrought by prayer than this world dreams of.” That Lord Tennyson used the word ‘wrought’ is significant. It implies the act of forging, or taking white hot iron and hammering it into the shape you want. It’s hot, sweaty work, but I can personally attest to the fact that the finished product is well worth it . . . as is prayer.

Remember that “The effectual fervent prayer of a righteous man [or mother] availeth much.” (James 5:16 KJV) So keep praying.

Mittie

One of the most delightful parishioners from my old pastoring days was Mittie, a diminutive little elderly woman who lived alone with her beagle, JJ. She ran a very successful tailoring business from her small, simple home less than a ten minute walk from the church.

To say Mittie was unique would be an understatement. One of her quirks was that she refused to watch any news or weather broadcasts, claiming that they were always either frightening or depressing or both, and that there wasn’t anything she could do about any of it anyway. She didn’t have a clue about crime statistics in our city or neighborhood, and only knew the weather was going to be bad when, well . . . when it was bad!

And she happened to be one of the most perennially happy people I’ve ever known.

I should point out that this was back in the 80s when the only news that was available in the first place was from one of three networks, and even then only in the early morning, at midday and in the evening, and the only way to get news to us was through the television or the radio. We weren’t bombarded 24-7-365 back then like we are today via multiple cable news outlets, talk radio, satellite radio, and the internet.

Unlike Mittie, if we aren’t careful we can let ourselves get completely consumed by the constant, negative news culture, start thinking that things are so much worse today than they’ve ever been, that evil is winning, that the world is coming to an end, and that politics is more partisan than at any time in history . . . none of which could be further from the truth. It just happens that technology has made it possible for us to instantly know literally every tragic happening on the planet, and even on the moon for that matter. (http://www.nbcnews.com/health/heart-health/deep-space-radiation-caused-heart-problems-apollo-astronauts-n618116)

I recently read an article by Sarah Skwire (https://fee.org/articles/gone-fishing/) and she reminds us that in the middle of some of the greatest upheavals in British history (England’s Second Civil War), retired ironmonger Izaak Walton walked away from London’s craven feuding and wrote a book about fishing, The Compleat Angler. It was an immediate hit, and it’s been printed and reprinted scores of times over the past 360 plus years, and is still in print to this very day. What could possibly make such a simple treatise of such a common activity so popular when so many more “important” things were happening in the English government?

It’s really not hard, is it? Like Mr. Walton and his readers, we need to get our minds around what truly is important, and it isn’t the never ending news cycle, the electoral process, or Washington DC. It’s your spouse, your kids, those adorable grandkids, your friends, your neighbors, and Washington isn’t going to do anything to make any of those lives better; but you can! 

If I’ve heard it once, I’ve heard it dozens of times; “I’m so afraid for my children’s and grandchildren’s future.” Well, I’m not, because I’ve personally invested (and am investing) my values, my time, and my energy into their present, and I am perfectly contented to leave their future to God and the loving guidance and example my wife and I have been. The Wise Man said it this way; “Direct your children onto the right path, and when they are older, they will not leave it.” (Proverbs 22:6 NLT)

So turn off the technology, ignore the empty promises of power hungry politicians, kiss your spouse, hug your kids, spend lots of time with your grandkids, know your neighbors and keep a watchful eye on them without being nosey about it. Live right, tell your stories, and teach the lessons life has taught you.

Be intentional . . .  and let’s go a’fishing!

The Auto Bell Work Ethic

Less than a mile north of my kids’ place in Asheville, North Carolina is a very busy full service Auto Bell car wash. (I’m always wanting to call it Taco Bell for some reason or other, but it’s definitely Auto Bell.) I like it because they not only run it through the automatic soap – rinse – wax – wheel bright – spot rinse – dryer stages, but they start out the whole procedure with a quick vacuuming and rubbish removal.

But those aren’t the biggest reasons I love this particular car wash. The real reason I love this Taco Bell . . . er, uh, Auto Bell . . . is because when the car has been run through the entire cycle, they’re still not done! Truth be told, in the spirit of the late, great Karen Carpenter, God rest her soul, “They’ve Only Just Begun.” (https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=__VQX2Xn7tI ) The white lace and promises are still ahead!

As soon as The Beast rolls out the front door, a Finisher (my term) jumps behind the wheel, drives it forward for a few yards, and then the real work begins; hand drying everything the super-blow dryer didn’t get, wash the windows inside and out, dust off the dash and seats, and yet another, more thorough vacuuming. This is business as usual at the Asheville Auto Bell. Pretty impressive, eh? But something happened on my last visit that exceeded even this impressive bit of Auto Bell’s version of business as usual.

My usual tip for the final, and only non-robotic phase is $3.00. I have no idea why. It just is. Well, I was standing at my usual post waiting for, and watching the young man that was my car’s Finisher. As is their customary routine, he starts hand drying everything the super-blow dryer missed which, surprisingly enough, are really quite a lot of nooks and crannies in not so obvious places until you see the water pooling on, or dripping from them. But then he does around the entire car again, hitting a water droplet here, and a water smear from round one there. Then he wipes every spoke on the wheels, not just the “normal” quick wipe-down, but a careful drying, almost polishing of each surface.

I reach in my pocket and grab another dollar out of my wallet.

Then, as usual, he crawls inside, wiping down the dash and whatever else they wipe down out of eye-shot. What’s unusual is that he’s in there quite a bit longer than I remember from past visits.

I reach in my pocket and grab another dollar out of my wallet.

Once a Finisher crawls out of the front seat, s/he usually will simply pop the front seat forward do a quick wiping down of the seats and a quick vacuuming. Not this guy. He crawls into the very tiny space the manufacturer calls a back seat and carefully wipes down the seats, side panels, back window, backs of the front seats, and only God knows what else he did back there. He sure didn’t take a nap!

I reach in my pocket and exchange my five ones for a five dollar bill and a one.

Okay, so he finally crawls out of the back seat (and this is a really big guy, almost a head taller than I am) and I start to head out the door . . . but wait, he gets his window spray out and strategically hits the windows again. Not the whole windows all over again, mind you, but a shot here, and a shot there. My presumption is that he saw flaws from the inside that needed touching up, so being the obvious perfectionist he is, he touches everything up.

By now I am standing there in stunned amazement. Once he appears to be finished with his window spot check, he stands back and I begin to move forward once again . . . but wait! He’s still not finished!!

He does a complete walk-around, mopping up a water droplet here, touching up an invisible smudge there, and taking yet another stab or two at the wheels. (No one EVER takes more than one look at the wheels.)

I reach in my pocket and exchange my fiver and one for a ten dollar bill as he waves to me, signaling that he is finally satisfied with his work. Not only do I happily hand him the ten dollar bill, I shower him with praise for his excellent work ethic, and remind him (or perhaps inform him for the first time) that with this kind attention to detail, he will probably own the place one of these days.

At the very least, he won’t be washing cars much longer!