CHRIST IN WINTER: Reflections on Faith from a place of winter For the Years of Winter…
I’m always reluctant to share dreams. People who know more about them than I do are likely to say, “If you dream about that, it means you’re crazy as a loon.” I don’t need to know that from dreams; I have people to tell me that. Occasionally, though, a dream seems right on the mark…
Last night I dreamt that I had become so lost that I could not find my way home. I was in that dream town, familiar, the town where I live, but only in my dreams. It’s a small town, but it has a lot of large church and college buildings. Many of them are neglected or abandoned. My wife had taken my father to the hospital, and I was trying to go there, but I had walked in from the country, and I was a long way from the hospital. I kept seeing familiar sights and sites, but I kept taking wrong turns. To make matters worse, I tried to call Helen to come get me, but I couldn’t remember her phone number. [Anyone familiar with my life can make a LOT out of all that!]
Old people worry a lot about losing memory. I suspect that one reason for my dream at this time is that I had several conversations this week with other old people about how we can’t remember where we put our glasses or parked our cars. [BTW, a good reason to have a landline as well as a cell phone, or at least two cell phones, is so you can find the phone you’ve lost by calling it. I know that for a fact.]
Men rely on wives for memory. Earl Davis, the grand mentor of The Academy of Parish Clergy, used to say, “I have a perfect memory system. It’s called, ‘Martha, where is that?’” I love the story about the old man who was trying to tell a friend about a new restaurant but couldn’t think of its name. “What’s that flower with the nice smell and thorns?” he said. “A rose? Oh, was the restaurant called The Rose?” “No. Hey, Rose, what was the name of that restaurant we went to?”
Pat Meyerholtz says that all of us who went to high school together have good memories; it’s just that we remember the same things in different ways. I like that. It shows how unique we are.
My wife is especially helpful when I worry about losing memory, because she says, “I’ve know you since you were twenty, and you’ve always been this way.” At least, I think that’s helpful.
Of course, forgetting your glasses or the third thing she told you to get at the grocery is just a frustration. Forgetting where home is, that’s tragedy.
After my friend from age ten, Darrel Guimond, was in a car accident that left him brain-damaged, he was able to remember one thing. He told his wife, Linda, “I know you. You’re the best thing that ever happened to me.”
I understand why we worry about losing memory. We lose our history, and thus our identity. I suspect we worry too much about it, though. Loss is the way of this world, isn’t it? When we are dead, none of us will be remembered for very long, not in the grand scheme of things. My identity and history are limited and declining, just like my memory.
I heard a story about a young adult group where each person was invited to pick a card from the deck to say who s/he was. One picked a Jack, another a deuce, another a King. One young man picked up the whole deck, turned it over, and said, “It doesn’t matter which card I am. What matters is whose hand I’m in.”
The good news is this: God doesn’t forget. God knew Darrel even when Darrel didn’t know himself. God remembers even the sparrow that falls to the ground. God knows me, my identity, my history. Even the hairs of my head are numbered. Granted, that’s easier in my case, but still…
JRMcF
You are always welcome to Forward or Repost or Reprint. It’s okay to acknowledge the source, unless it embarrasses you too much.
{I also write the fictional “Periwinkle Chronicles” blog. One needs a rather strange sense of humor to enjoy it, but occasionally it is slightly funny. It is at http://periwinklechronicles.blogspot.com/}
(If you would prefer to receive either “Christ In Winter” or “Periwinkle Chronicles” via email, just let me know at jmcfarland1721@charter.net, and I’ll put you on the email list.)
Iron Mountain ski jump
Thursday, June 30, 2011
Thursday, June 23, 2011
Sam's Funeral
CHRIST IN WINTER: Reflections on Faith from a place of winter For the Years of Winter…
SAM’S FUNERAL
I’m trying to figure out how to say everything at Sam’s funeral that needs to be said without crying as I say it.
I pass the peace with Sam’s daughter at church each Sunday, but I’ve never met Sam. I don’t do funerals anymore. Or weddings, or anything else I did for 50 years as a pastor. I’m retired. But Pastor Thomas has already moved to her new appointment, and Pastor Mallory isn’t here yet, so when Sam died, Sue had the funeral home call me.
I’m glad to help. The problem is that I can’t read the service in the Book of Worship or think about what I’m going to say about Sam without crying.
I used to cry at the sad times of life. I still do. There is nothing sad, though, about the death of a man of 95, full of years and memories. In the winter of my years, however, I cry whenever I experience fullness, wholeness, beauty. Whatever is true, whatever is honorable, whatever is just, whatever is pure, whatever is lovely, whatever is gracious, if there is any excellence, if there is anything worthy of praise, I think on these things [Philippians 4:8], and I am filled to the brim with joy, so that my cup overflows, and the overflow comes out through my eyes.
That’s okay. I’m glad to be filled with the wholeness of life, so much so that I can’t find words to express what joy that is, and so all I can do is weep. That’s not a very good way to do a funeral, though.
So I sit here and try to figure out ways I can say what needs to be said without those trigger words that cause me to overflow. Maybe I’ll think about stuff that makes me mad. I don’t cry at stuff that makes me mad, like the Reds’ starting pitchers. Maybe that’s why old people are grumpy so much of the time; we’re trying to keep from crying. I hope Sam will forgive me for doing the funeral with a mental image of him on the mound in a Reds uniform, giving up home runs…
JRMcF
The “place of winter” mentioned in the title line is Iron Mountain, in Michigan’s Upper Peninsula, where life is defined by winter even in the summer!
Dave Nash says that the links to my blogs and my email, which I post below, do not work. I apologize for any inconvenience. I have redone them, and so now I hope they work. If they don’t, you can type them in yourself as they are, because they are accurate, even if not workable.
You are always welcome to Forward or Repost or Reprint. It’s okay to acknowledge the source, unless it embarrasses you too much. It is okay to refer the link to older folks you know or to print it in a church newsletter or bulletin.
{I also write the fictional “Periwinkle Chronicles” blog. One needs a rather strange sense of humor to enjoy it, but occasionally it is slightly funny. It is at http://periwinklechronicles.blogspot.com/}
(If you would prefer to receive either “Christ In Winter” or “Periwinkle Chronicles” via email, just let me know at jmcfarland1721@charter.net, and I’ll put you on the email list.)
SAM’S FUNERAL
I’m trying to figure out how to say everything at Sam’s funeral that needs to be said without crying as I say it.
I pass the peace with Sam’s daughter at church each Sunday, but I’ve never met Sam. I don’t do funerals anymore. Or weddings, or anything else I did for 50 years as a pastor. I’m retired. But Pastor Thomas has already moved to her new appointment, and Pastor Mallory isn’t here yet, so when Sam died, Sue had the funeral home call me.
I’m glad to help. The problem is that I can’t read the service in the Book of Worship or think about what I’m going to say about Sam without crying.
I used to cry at the sad times of life. I still do. There is nothing sad, though, about the death of a man of 95, full of years and memories. In the winter of my years, however, I cry whenever I experience fullness, wholeness, beauty. Whatever is true, whatever is honorable, whatever is just, whatever is pure, whatever is lovely, whatever is gracious, if there is any excellence, if there is anything worthy of praise, I think on these things [Philippians 4:8], and I am filled to the brim with joy, so that my cup overflows, and the overflow comes out through my eyes.
That’s okay. I’m glad to be filled with the wholeness of life, so much so that I can’t find words to express what joy that is, and so all I can do is weep. That’s not a very good way to do a funeral, though.
So I sit here and try to figure out ways I can say what needs to be said without those trigger words that cause me to overflow. Maybe I’ll think about stuff that makes me mad. I don’t cry at stuff that makes me mad, like the Reds’ starting pitchers. Maybe that’s why old people are grumpy so much of the time; we’re trying to keep from crying. I hope Sam will forgive me for doing the funeral with a mental image of him on the mound in a Reds uniform, giving up home runs…
JRMcF
The “place of winter” mentioned in the title line is Iron Mountain, in Michigan’s Upper Peninsula, where life is defined by winter even in the summer!
Dave Nash says that the links to my blogs and my email, which I post below, do not work. I apologize for any inconvenience. I have redone them, and so now I hope they work. If they don’t, you can type them in yourself as they are, because they are accurate, even if not workable.
You are always welcome to Forward or Repost or Reprint. It’s okay to acknowledge the source, unless it embarrasses you too much. It is okay to refer the link to older folks you know or to print it in a church newsletter or bulletin.
{I also write the fictional “Periwinkle Chronicles” blog. One needs a rather strange sense of humor to enjoy it, but occasionally it is slightly funny. It is at http://periwinklechronicles.blogspot.com/}
(If you would prefer to receive either “Christ In Winter” or “Periwinkle Chronicles” via email, just let me know at jmcfarland1721@charter.net, and I’ll put you on the email list.)
Monday, June 20, 2011
Flowers of Winter
CHRIST IN WINTER: Reflections on Faith from a place of winter For the Years of Winter…
FLOWERS OF WINTER
Spring and summer are times of planting and of growth. Autumn is a time of harvest. Winter is the fulfillment of all the seasons past, a time to pull all the scattered pieces of seasons past into a final wholeness. In winter we still plant and cultivate and harvest, but in new ways.
When you live in a place of winter, where you dare not plant anything outside until after Memorial Day, or your new plants will be only memorials themselves after the freeze that haunts spring like a zombie craving the brains of vegetarians, you push the season forward any way you can, so a place of winter is in spring and early summer a place of hanging baskets, that can be brought inside when a night is too cold.
The freezes are not the only pillagers of springtime. There are four-legged predators, too, that want to eat the fruits of your work. Rabbits and deer will munch anything you plant, no matter how much you paid for it or how hard you worked on it. So a place of winter in summer is a place of flower boxes, high on railings on porches and decks, too high for rabbits, and where deer will not venture.
Gardeners in their winter years complain about the work but cannot give it up. They get down onto their knees and cannot get back up. That’s okay. If you have to stay on your knees, you can feel a lot of humility and do a lot of praying. But baskets and boxes give you room to plant and dig even if your knees won’t bend.
There is a growing season, even in winter, but it is for flower boxes and hanging baskets. There are predators in winter, freezes and deer and rabbits, that will devour your blooms if you put them out too far. Winter is a time to keep your flowers close at hand, even though they be few, the better to touch and sniff and look .
JRMcF
The “place of winter” mentioned in the title line is Iron Mountain, in Michigan’s Upper Peninsula, where life is defined by winter even in the summer!
Dave Nash says that the links to my blogs and my email, which I post below, do not work. I apologize for any inconvenience. I have redone them, and so now I hope they work. If they don’t, you can type them in yourself as they are, because they are accurate, even if not workable.
You are always welcome to Forward or Repost or Reprint. It’s okay to acknowledge the source, unless it embarrasses you too much. It is okay to refer the link to older folks you know or to print it in a church newsletter or bulletin.
{I also write the fictional “Periwinkle Chronicles” blog. One needs a rather strange sense of humor to enjoy it, but occasionally it is slightly funny. It is at http://periwinklechronicles.blogspot.com/}
(If you would prefer to receive either “Christ In Winter” or “Periwinkle Chronicles” via email, just let me know at jmcfarland1721@charter.net, and I’ll put you on the email list.)
FLOWERS OF WINTER
Spring and summer are times of planting and of growth. Autumn is a time of harvest. Winter is the fulfillment of all the seasons past, a time to pull all the scattered pieces of seasons past into a final wholeness. In winter we still plant and cultivate and harvest, but in new ways.
When you live in a place of winter, where you dare not plant anything outside until after Memorial Day, or your new plants will be only memorials themselves after the freeze that haunts spring like a zombie craving the brains of vegetarians, you push the season forward any way you can, so a place of winter is in spring and early summer a place of hanging baskets, that can be brought inside when a night is too cold.
The freezes are not the only pillagers of springtime. There are four-legged predators, too, that want to eat the fruits of your work. Rabbits and deer will munch anything you plant, no matter how much you paid for it or how hard you worked on it. So a place of winter in summer is a place of flower boxes, high on railings on porches and decks, too high for rabbits, and where deer will not venture.
Gardeners in their winter years complain about the work but cannot give it up. They get down onto their knees and cannot get back up. That’s okay. If you have to stay on your knees, you can feel a lot of humility and do a lot of praying. But baskets and boxes give you room to plant and dig even if your knees won’t bend.
There is a growing season, even in winter, but it is for flower boxes and hanging baskets. There are predators in winter, freezes and deer and rabbits, that will devour your blooms if you put them out too far. Winter is a time to keep your flowers close at hand, even though they be few, the better to touch and sniff and look .
JRMcF
The “place of winter” mentioned in the title line is Iron Mountain, in Michigan’s Upper Peninsula, where life is defined by winter even in the summer!
Dave Nash says that the links to my blogs and my email, which I post below, do not work. I apologize for any inconvenience. I have redone them, and so now I hope they work. If they don’t, you can type them in yourself as they are, because they are accurate, even if not workable.
You are always welcome to Forward or Repost or Reprint. It’s okay to acknowledge the source, unless it embarrasses you too much. It is okay to refer the link to older folks you know or to print it in a church newsletter or bulletin.
{I also write the fictional “Periwinkle Chronicles” blog. One needs a rather strange sense of humor to enjoy it, but occasionally it is slightly funny. It is at http://periwinklechronicles.blogspot.com/}
(If you would prefer to receive either “Christ In Winter” or “Periwinkle Chronicles” via email, just let me know at jmcfarland1721@charter.net, and I’ll put you on the email list.)
Tuesday, June 14, 2011
Deciding to Stay
CHRIST IN WINTER: Reflections on Faith from a place of winter For the Years of Winter…
DECIDING TO STAY
Roma Peterson died May 25 at the age of 95, 75 years after she first wanted to do it.
Helen and I have been blessed through the years with older, often retired, pastoral couples who have mentored us as much with their friendship as with their advice. Their very presence was witness that we, too, could survive the church if we were just patiently faithful.
Don and Dee Lemkau, Max and Ruth White, Harvey and Hazel Gaither—all gone to their reward.
Harvey and Hazel were part of an especially rich mentoring fellowship in the Quad Cities, when I was appointed to Orion, IL, several miles south of Moline. They were retired, but their son, the second Harvey, who went by Keith, was a close friend of mine, and Helen and I cavorted socially with Keith and Joyce. Their son, the third Harvey, is a UMC pastor in IL, as were his father and grandfather. That’s a rich heritage.
In that Quad Cities fellowship were Harold and Roma Peterson. Harold retired in 1973, the year before I was appointed to Orion, his last pastorate at Rock Island First. He died in 1993.
Harold was warm and pleasant. Roma was warm and elegant. My late and late-life friend, theologian Mary McDermott Shideler [1], said that elegance is “beauty plus organization.” Our late pastor’s-wife friend, Dianne Bass, fit that description. So did Roma Peterson.
One night in our parsonage in Orion, Roma told us this story. She and Harold had been married only a little while. He was a pastor in the Norwegian Methodist Conference in northern IL, the first pastor of his congregation to speak both Norwegian and English. She suddenly became deathly ill and was rushed to the hospital. [I can’t remember the reason or the illness.] The doctors told Harold there was no hope for her.
This was in the early 1920s. Most people didn’t have telephones or cars. That included Harold’s parents. His father was also a Norwegian Methodist pastor, perhaps a District Superintendent. It was late afternoon, and he was going home. He got to his front porch and was met there by his wife, Harold’s mother, who said that as he stepped onto the porch, he got a strange look on his face. “Harold and Roma need me,” he said. He set his briefcase down on the porch, turned around and walked to the train station, where he caught the train for Harold and Roma’s town.
He arrived at Roma’s hospital room just as she had decided to die. “It just felt so comfortable,” she said. “I knew I was safe and that I could go on to a better place. But I looked up and saw Harold staring down at me. I didn’t recognize him, but I thought, that young man looks so lost. He looks like he needs me. I’d better stay.”
JRMcF
1] Mary and I became correspondence friends when she sent me a gracious and positive note in response to an article I wrote for The Christian Century, “Prayer as an Occasional Thing.” She lived in Boulder, CO. When I was speaking at the 20th anniversary celebration of CANSURMOUNT in Denver, we stayed with Lynn Ringer, co-founder of that organization and ovarian cancer survivor. When Lynn learned that we wanted to visit Mary, and where Mary lived—way, way up the mountain—she insisted on driving us up there herself, which was a very good idea, both because we would never have made it in our rented Hyundai, and because Lynn enjoyed meeting Mary in person as much as we did. I think it was meeting Lynn that caused Mary to tell us her definition of elegance.
The “place of winter” mentioned in the title line is Iron Mountain, in Michigan’s Upper Peninsula, where life is defined by winter even in the summer!
Dave Nash says that the links to my blogs and my email, which I post below, do not work. I apologize for any inconvenience. I have redone them, and so now I hope they work. If they don’t, you can type them in yourself as they are, because they are accurate, even if not workable.
You are always welcome to Forward or Repost or Reprint. It’s okay to acknowledge the source, unless it embarrasses you too much. It is okay to refer the link to older folks you know or to print it in a church newsletter or bulletin.
{I also write the fictional “Periwinkle Chronicles” blog. One needs a rather strange sense of humor to enjoy it, but occasionally it is slightly funny. It is at http://periwinklechronicles.blogspot.com/}
(If you would prefer to receive either “Christ In Winter” or “Periwinkle Chronicles” via email, just let me know at jmcfarland1721@charter.net, and I’ll put you on the email list.)
DECIDING TO STAY
Roma Peterson died May 25 at the age of 95, 75 years after she first wanted to do it.
Helen and I have been blessed through the years with older, often retired, pastoral couples who have mentored us as much with their friendship as with their advice. Their very presence was witness that we, too, could survive the church if we were just patiently faithful.
Don and Dee Lemkau, Max and Ruth White, Harvey and Hazel Gaither—all gone to their reward.
Harvey and Hazel were part of an especially rich mentoring fellowship in the Quad Cities, when I was appointed to Orion, IL, several miles south of Moline. They were retired, but their son, the second Harvey, who went by Keith, was a close friend of mine, and Helen and I cavorted socially with Keith and Joyce. Their son, the third Harvey, is a UMC pastor in IL, as were his father and grandfather. That’s a rich heritage.
In that Quad Cities fellowship were Harold and Roma Peterson. Harold retired in 1973, the year before I was appointed to Orion, his last pastorate at Rock Island First. He died in 1993.
Harold was warm and pleasant. Roma was warm and elegant. My late and late-life friend, theologian Mary McDermott Shideler [1], said that elegance is “beauty plus organization.” Our late pastor’s-wife friend, Dianne Bass, fit that description. So did Roma Peterson.
One night in our parsonage in Orion, Roma told us this story. She and Harold had been married only a little while. He was a pastor in the Norwegian Methodist Conference in northern IL, the first pastor of his congregation to speak both Norwegian and English. She suddenly became deathly ill and was rushed to the hospital. [I can’t remember the reason or the illness.] The doctors told Harold there was no hope for her.
This was in the early 1920s. Most people didn’t have telephones or cars. That included Harold’s parents. His father was also a Norwegian Methodist pastor, perhaps a District Superintendent. It was late afternoon, and he was going home. He got to his front porch and was met there by his wife, Harold’s mother, who said that as he stepped onto the porch, he got a strange look on his face. “Harold and Roma need me,” he said. He set his briefcase down on the porch, turned around and walked to the train station, where he caught the train for Harold and Roma’s town.
He arrived at Roma’s hospital room just as she had decided to die. “It just felt so comfortable,” she said. “I knew I was safe and that I could go on to a better place. But I looked up and saw Harold staring down at me. I didn’t recognize him, but I thought, that young man looks so lost. He looks like he needs me. I’d better stay.”
JRMcF
1] Mary and I became correspondence friends when she sent me a gracious and positive note in response to an article I wrote for The Christian Century, “Prayer as an Occasional Thing.” She lived in Boulder, CO. When I was speaking at the 20th anniversary celebration of CANSURMOUNT in Denver, we stayed with Lynn Ringer, co-founder of that organization and ovarian cancer survivor. When Lynn learned that we wanted to visit Mary, and where Mary lived—way, way up the mountain—she insisted on driving us up there herself, which was a very good idea, both because we would never have made it in our rented Hyundai, and because Lynn enjoyed meeting Mary in person as much as we did. I think it was meeting Lynn that caused Mary to tell us her definition of elegance.
The “place of winter” mentioned in the title line is Iron Mountain, in Michigan’s Upper Peninsula, where life is defined by winter even in the summer!
Dave Nash says that the links to my blogs and my email, which I post below, do not work. I apologize for any inconvenience. I have redone them, and so now I hope they work. If they don’t, you can type them in yourself as they are, because they are accurate, even if not workable.
You are always welcome to Forward or Repost or Reprint. It’s okay to acknowledge the source, unless it embarrasses you too much. It is okay to refer the link to older folks you know or to print it in a church newsletter or bulletin.
{I also write the fictional “Periwinkle Chronicles” blog. One needs a rather strange sense of humor to enjoy it, but occasionally it is slightly funny. It is at http://periwinklechronicles.blogspot.com/}
(If you would prefer to receive either “Christ In Winter” or “Periwinkle Chronicles” via email, just let me know at jmcfarland1721@charter.net, and I’ll put you on the email list.)
Thursday, June 2, 2011
Preparing for the Right Question
CHRIST IN WINTER: Reflections on Faith from a place of winter For the Years of Winter…
Methodist ministers are appointed to a charge, which is one congregation or a circuit of several congregations, by a bishop, for one year at a time. We do not have membership in any one local church or congregation. We belong to a conference, a collection of churches in a geographical area, usually a state, presided over by a bishop. The ministers and laity from each church get together once a year, usually in -June, the annual conference, for inspiration, to transact business, and to receive officially an appointment for the coming church year, which starts July 1.
That means we are a connectional church. I was doing graduate work in Boston one year during the New England Annual Conference. The reporter who covered the conference misunderstood and wrote that Methodism is “a correctional church.” Or maybe it was not a misunderstanding.
The annual conference of the Illinois Great Rivers Conference [1] is meeting this week. Geographically it is 500 miles away from where I now live. Emotionally, it’s right here.
Most clergy feel the connection to others of our ilk very strongly, but unless we live in geographical proximity, we get to see one another only once a year, at Annual Conference. Our far-flung colleagues loved coming to annual conference for the fellowship, but they dreaded seeing me, for I always had a new question each year, especially for my younger friends, something like “What is the most important thing you learned in the past year?” or “What is the most important book you read this year?” They tried to avoid me, but I was like a sore tooth you can’t stop pestering with your tongue. Sooner or later they would sidle up to be interrogated. One year I asked my question of Rod VanScoy, who said, “Darn. I prepared for the wrong question.”
We won’t be able to get away with that when we attend that Great Annual Conference in the Sky [2]. We all know which question to prepare for. Since love is the only thing death does not conquer, the only question there will be, “Did you love?”
JRMcF
1] The lower two-thirds of IL.
2] No, I’ve never heard it called that before, either, but it would make a fun Gospel song.]
The “place of winter” mentioned in the title line is Iron Mountain, in Michigan’s Upper Peninsula, where life is defined by winter even in the summer!
Dave Nash says that the links to my blogs and my email, which I post below, do not work. I apologize for any inconvenience. I have redone them, and so now I hope they work. If they don’t, you can type them in yourself as they are, because they are accurate, even if not workable.
You are always welcome to Forward or Repost or Reprint. It’s okay to acknowledge the source, unless it embarrasses you too much. It is okay to refer the link to older folks you know or to print it in a church newsletter or bulletin.
{I also write the fictional “Periwinkle Chronicles” blog. One needs a rather strange sense of humor to enjoy it, but occasionally it is slightly funny. It is at http://periwinklechronicles.blogspot.com/}
(If you would prefer to receive either “Christ In Winter” or “Periwinkle Chronicles” via email, just let me know at jmcfarland1721@charter.net, and I’ll put you on the email list.)
Methodist ministers are appointed to a charge, which is one congregation or a circuit of several congregations, by a bishop, for one year at a time. We do not have membership in any one local church or congregation. We belong to a conference, a collection of churches in a geographical area, usually a state, presided over by a bishop. The ministers and laity from each church get together once a year, usually in -June, the annual conference, for inspiration, to transact business, and to receive officially an appointment for the coming church year, which starts July 1.
That means we are a connectional church. I was doing graduate work in Boston one year during the New England Annual Conference. The reporter who covered the conference misunderstood and wrote that Methodism is “a correctional church.” Or maybe it was not a misunderstanding.
The annual conference of the Illinois Great Rivers Conference [1] is meeting this week. Geographically it is 500 miles away from where I now live. Emotionally, it’s right here.
Most clergy feel the connection to others of our ilk very strongly, but unless we live in geographical proximity, we get to see one another only once a year, at Annual Conference. Our far-flung colleagues loved coming to annual conference for the fellowship, but they dreaded seeing me, for I always had a new question each year, especially for my younger friends, something like “What is the most important thing you learned in the past year?” or “What is the most important book you read this year?” They tried to avoid me, but I was like a sore tooth you can’t stop pestering with your tongue. Sooner or later they would sidle up to be interrogated. One year I asked my question of Rod VanScoy, who said, “Darn. I prepared for the wrong question.”
We won’t be able to get away with that when we attend that Great Annual Conference in the Sky [2]. We all know which question to prepare for. Since love is the only thing death does not conquer, the only question there will be, “Did you love?”
JRMcF
1] The lower two-thirds of IL.
2] No, I’ve never heard it called that before, either, but it would make a fun Gospel song.]
The “place of winter” mentioned in the title line is Iron Mountain, in Michigan’s Upper Peninsula, where life is defined by winter even in the summer!
Dave Nash says that the links to my blogs and my email, which I post below, do not work. I apologize for any inconvenience. I have redone them, and so now I hope they work. If they don’t, you can type them in yourself as they are, because they are accurate, even if not workable.
You are always welcome to Forward or Repost or Reprint. It’s okay to acknowledge the source, unless it embarrasses you too much. It is okay to refer the link to older folks you know or to print it in a church newsletter or bulletin.
{I also write the fictional “Periwinkle Chronicles” blog. One needs a rather strange sense of humor to enjoy it, but occasionally it is slightly funny. It is at http://periwinklechronicles.blogspot.com/}
(If you would prefer to receive either “Christ In Winter” or “Periwinkle Chronicles” via email, just let me know at jmcfarland1721@charter.net, and I’ll put you on the email list.)
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)