Musings: Notes From My Daybook

Yesterday evening about 6pm, in need of a quick bite, I decided to head to the absolute nearest eatery. In Atlanta that would mean--Waffle House. Since I had a lecture to give later in the evening I was wearing a suit and tie. Didn't think much about it until sitting down. But then I looked around and realize that I was the rich guy in the place. In fact, I stood out like a pimple on Brad Pitts' face.

The two women behind spoke English, but it was likely the sort of English that would have been heard in rural Georgia. Two other women at the counter spoke English as well; but I suspect they would have preferred to used their native dialect instead. In front of the Waffle House a couple of fellows were selling something out of the trunk of a car. I gave up trying to figure out what; I was fearful that they were either try to sell to me or think that I was a cop or something.

I really don't think of myself as being well-to-do. I drive a 12 year old car, resole my shoes, and faithfully use any Chick-Fil-A coupons that come my way (thanks, Amos!). Vickie and I worry about paying a mortgage payment every month, the usual medical bills, and black hole of college tuition.

Traveling abroad I have experienced the reality of wealth and poverty. I have seen myself as rich when I've been abroad--Egypt, Jordan, or in Latin America. But, yesterday, not a mile away from our church, I was sitting in another world. No one in my line of sight was worrying about mortgages or cars, or resoleing dress shoes.

They were worrying about rent payments, scraping together enough change to pay for take home, and stewing about what the boss would say if were to ask off to go see their kid's play at the elementary school next week. Minimum wage plus tips and on a slow night--that doesn't add up to much.

Jesus said the poor will always be with us. He was right. Jesus showed compassion to the poor. He was right about that as well. I just wonder if there is some way in which compassion could mean more than a just a handout. A handout that relieves the guilty conscious and does little to shift the cycle of poverty in our cities.

I don't know. Until then, I'm leaving a bigger tip.

Yesterday was a tragic day for Northlake. One of our own, a woman who grew up here, a daughter of one of our stalwart and dearly loved families, passed away in the early hours of Thursday morning. Her loss, poignant enough, to see one in the middle of life pass away, was heightened by her valiant struggle to reclaim her life after a horrible physical attack several years ago.

Adding to the loss is that this sweet family had already lost their only other child, another daughter, about 18 years ago.

Spending the day with the family, running back and forth from daughter's apartment to the family home, hugging, crying, listening, praying--yesterday was a remarkable experience in both the devastation and heartache of life as well as the power of God's presence. Even in the shadow of death, everywhere I was at yesterday, there were people from Northlake living out the presence of God. Arms surrounding hurting people, knees bent in prayer, coffee brewing in the kitchen, platters of food arriving, errands being run by folk--the family home was filled with God's people being the hands and feet of Jesus.

Pulled out of the context of the larger dimensions of life, this woman's death is senseless and devoid of meaning. Placed in the context of what she had endured and the witness of God's care through Christian people, her loss takes on a new meaning. Even in her dying God makes himself known to those who would see.

Tonight my family and I will gather with other members of our congregation for a Thanksgiving meal with residents at Decatur Christian Towers. The Towers is home to almost 300 senior citizens and for whom an opportunity to meet and be with others is a special time indeed.

In addition to a meal together, we will sing a few songs and I will offer a brief message. Frankly, I usually think that it is the many residents that should teach me a few things. War veterans, survivors of cancer, people who have been married to one spouse for 57 years, world travelers, and much more set there in rows interspersed with young families and teenagers. What do I have to offer about practicing gratitude that they haven't already tried?

Of course, I know that my job isn't about coming up with something new. That is one thing I learned some years ago. Preaching is not about coming up with some new twist or some catchy phrase calculated to stir somebody into action. Preaching is about telling the story--truthfully and in a way that the story is heard.

So, I guess it is back to the basics tonight. A few reminders about being grateful. Starting with God's gracious love toward us it should be too hard to come up with something to say.

Got to go. I think it's time to be grateful for a piece of pumpkin pie!

Sitting in the Waffle House in Jasper, Georgia (not a usual haunt for me, but the only other breakfast spot I could see was McDonalds!), I found myself listening into the local gossip. Now the thing about what you hear in breakfast spots anywhere in the country is that it is the same wherever you are at. It generally centers in on the weather, rising prices, and the habits of certain selected persons on the community. Jasper is no exception. Weather is holding on the warm side for this time of year, gas prices are higher (and apparently some new apartments in the area are sticking to folks as well, Norma Jean has got a new UGA dog. For readers outside of Georgia that is a bulldog.

But in the middle of this ordinary scene, played out everyday in restaurants across the land, was a moment of grace. I didn’t hear what was said; I am glad I didn’t because then I would in danger of gossiping myself. In fact I’m not sure whether it was words spoken to each other or words spoken to God beside the sizzling sausages on the grill. But without a doubt, those words spoken were holy words of comfort to a woman who wore grief on her face as surely as she wore a Waffle House apron. Within two minutes it was over and the banter at the counter resumed.

Ministry in action makes morning coffee smell like incense and waffles unleavened bread.

When you are 82 years old, your hearing is fading and you can no longer walk, life is largely reduced to a wheel chair in a small room. Thankfully, for Lois, that room is in the building where her daughter and granddaughter works. Nevertheless, when meeting the preacher is the most important thing you can talk about and the noticable thing you want to talk about is how many people are dying around you, the preacher knows that rather than beating around the bush it is time to say some things about death and dying.

The irony is that all around life is moving forward. The rush of traffic, the buzz of business. The frenetic pace of life is pulsing and throbbing. Even inside the well-kept nursing home, nurses hustle efficiently and staff work competently along. But in this one room a lady sits with her two guests--immobilized by advanced age and declining health.

And though the talk is a walk through memory lane--people and places of the past--the real topic is about death. She recounts quietly the death of the woman across the hall and the one next door. One passed quietly and the other suffered horribly. What will it be like for me is the question in her eyes.

Whatever it will be death is not a portal that one passes through alone. I tell her that death is not the end; something greater lies beyond the shadow of death's door. And is God is real now, he will only be more real in the "greater" that exists.

The afternoon passes and we pray. I give her and hug and she smiles with peace in her eyes. I imagine that she will again the hear the sounds of death down her hallway. But perhaps she will remember that she does not wait for death alone.