THE GIRLS I LEFT BEHIND [Sat, 7-29-23]

 CHRIST IN WINTER: Reflections on Faith & Life for the Years of Winter--THE GIRLS I LEFT BEHIND [Sat, 7-29-23]

 

Sharon, Don’s widow, called me this week. She and Bob are setting up a convenient little reunion for those in our high school class who are within driving distance of Oakland City. Early afternoon, so that everyone can get home before dark. No meal, so no work or cost. What a nice idea for old people…

…except Helen and I can’t go, even though everybody in our class thinks of her as one of our own, since she has been to so many of my class reunions and events for 60 years.

Not many of us within driving distance anymore. Jim, Kenny, Bob, the other Bob, maybe Jack, Marietta, Sandra, the other Jack, two or three I’m not sure about where they live now. So many people go off to California or Arizona to live near their children.

It would not be a hard drive for us. 90 miles on a nice new interstate. But because the road is new, and there are no towns on the way, there are no rest rooms. 90 miles will require at least one stop for me. and one for Helen. And our bladders are never on the same schedule, so that means two stops, where there are none. And the matter of sitting up straight for 90 miles…and then on folding chairs for a couple of hours… well, I’m sure you understand why I had to tell Sharon “No,” even though I was once in love with her.

It was our sophomore year, I think. Before she and Don were dating. For a month. I doubt that she knew I was in love with her, since I always tried to avoid the girls I was interested in. Or maybe my temporary distance was how they knew I cared about them, those many, many girls.

I was in love with approximately 200 girls in our high school years. one month each, or maybe two for Carolyn. Well, actually I was in love with Carolyn ever since I saw her wearing Howdy Doody earmuffs when we were in 5^th grade. It doesn’t get hotter than that. So she doesn’t count in the one per month lineup. But, she went to Purdue, so it never would have worked out.

Even though I had to tell Sharon I couldn’t come to the reunion, we had a nice, long conversation. Her daughter was diagnosed with cancer when she was two, and Sharon was a great help to us when our grandson got that same diagnosis at 15 months. We talked about that, and classmates dead and lost, and our school days in general. She said something that touched me. “You were always a perfect gentleman.”

I guess that should not have surprised me. I tried to treat people as a gentleman would. But it meant more to me precisely because Sharon and I never dated. I’m sure that Phyllis and Nancy, girls I actually did date, would have said the same, although they might have said it with a bit of a disgusted sneer, because I was always afraid of girls. I didn’t know how to deal with them, what they wanted from a boyfriend. So I was careful not to transgress any boundaries, while at the same time trying to be attentive. I wanted to be that way with everyone, treating them with respect. To know that a girl who was a classmate still thinks of me that way meant that I was successful in treating my friends the way I wanted to be treated.

When we are old, it’s satisfying to know that our friends appreciated the way we were when we were young together.

John Robert McFarland

 

PRAYER QUESTIONS [W, 7-26-23]

CHRIST IN WINTER: Reflections on Faith & Life for the Years of Winter:

 PRAYER QUESTIONS [W, 7-26-23]

 

God, when a man is old

can just naming someone

be counted as a prayer?

I mean, time is limited

now. And it’s hard to believe

that you count

the lines I intone

to be divinely sure

that the minimum

qualifications are met

So, if I just name them

one by one, Bob and Carol

and Ted and Alice,

you’ll surely

get the idea, I’m sure…

but, oh, what about those

fading folk whose names

I can’t remember?

That’s a bit of a problem

these days. Will it work

if I only see their faces,

as in a mirror, dimly

and say, Here’s a prayer

for the unknown sinner?

And what about the bastards—

well, I’m just being realistic--

I pray for not because I want to

but because you say I have to?

Shouldn’t a prayer

for someone I don’t like

count double?

You’d think that by the age

we are now, God,

you and me,

we’d have already

gotten this worked out…

 

John Robert McFarland

 

BEWARE THE STORIES THAT CHOOSE YOU [Sun, 7-23-23]

 CHRIST IN WINTER: Reflections on Faith & Life for the Years of Winter—BEWARE THE STORIES THAT CHOOSE YOU [Sun, 7-23-23]

 

The two most important books of my childhood were Tramp, the Sheep Dog, by Don Lang, and Mother Makes Christmas by Cornelia Meigs.

Early on in my story-loving life, they mirrored me to myself. They may also have led me astray.

Tramp was a good dog who wanted to protect the sheep but was misunderstood. He was a stranger. The farmer didn’t know his intentions were good. So poor Tramp ended up dying, in winter, in the snow, while protecting the sheep that the farmer thought Tramp was trying to hurt.

Tramp was “…despised and rejected by men. Acquainted with grief. He was despised, and we esteemed him not…” Oh, wait, that is Christ…

I got my earliest theology from that book. Tramp, I mean Christ, died because of our sin, our misunderstanding, our rejection of his protection.

I identified with that. Not with Christ. I always thought I had to be perfect, but I’ve never had a Messiah Complex. [The funny thing about that is that I don’t think that God, the Father, ever expected “his only son” to be perfect. Good fathers know better.]

I saw myself in Tramp. I was sure that my parents misunderstood me and esteemed me not. I was acquainted with that grief.

 

But, as counter balance, Mother Makes Christmas. It was hope more than reality. My mother was not much like the mother Cornelia Meigs wrote about, but I wanted her to be. We were poor, like the family in Meigs’ book, and I wanted Mother to pull us together into a family of love despite that poverty, the way the mother in the book did. But my mother was a real woman with a hard life that she wasn’t cut out for, not a story-book character. Still, that warm Christmas house was my ideal.

So, I envisioned a life, a family, in which I would be like Tramp, giving my life for the sake of others, in winter, in the snow, and at the same time I envisioned a life, a family, a church, in which love abounded, despite poverty, in winter, at Christmas.

The homiletical stirrings in my spirit have always been toward Christmas, writing stories that I preached as sermons. I named my blog column Christ In Winter because when I started it, we lived in Michigan’s Upper Peninsula, a place where winter covered thirteen months each year, and also I was in the winter of my years. But Christ In Winter goes all the way back to Tramp and Mother making Christmas, doesn’t it?

But now, late in life, I wonder if the stories of Tramp and making Christmas led my astray.

I was so wedded to the notion that I was a non-esteemed sacrificial homeless dog that I often failed to appreciate when people saw me with approval, and treated me with respect.

I was so focused on pulling everyone into the warm happy Christ-mas family that I often failed to understand those who did not want that sort of community.

If I had read different books as a kid, would things have gone differently? Better? If Treasure Island had been my book, would I have been happy as a pirate? Probably not. If it were Snow White, would I have just been Happy? Probably Grumpy.

I still have my copies of Tramp the Sheep Dog and Mother Makes Christmas. Maybe I could donate them. Is there a rare books library that specializes in books that write our stories for us?

John Robert McFarland

 

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Enjoying the Decline [R, 7-20-23]

CHRIST IN WINTER: Reflections on Faith & Life for the Years of Winter—Enjoying the Decline [R, 7-20-23]

 

My friend, Ron Wetzell, is “managing the decline.” That’s the phrase he uses for dealing with aging. He’s not very old, only 76, but he’s always been smart and thoughtful, for the whole 57 years that we have been friends. During his distinguished career as head of Child Protective Services in The Twin Cities, he liked to quote, to himself and to his staff, the line from Robert Frost’s “Servant to Servant” poem: The only way out is through. He is not afraid to face what is, and right now his isness involves decline, and so he is facing into it with his considerable management skills.

I like that idea of managing the decline, rather than just letting it happen, rather than letting it manage you. As I walked this morning, though, it occurred to me that I need to enjoy the decline rather than just manage it. In other words, I want to manage my decline in such a way that I enjoy it.

I am finding that when old age takes from me some activity or skill or ability, I can do more than accept the empty space that is left. I can enjoy it.

I used to be a long-distance runner. I enjoyed that, got satisfaction from it. When I had to stop running, I started walking. I found that I enjoyed the route in new ways when I walked. I was able to appreciate the flowers and houses and dogs in ways that I could not when I was panting and sweating and trying “to get in my miles.”

I suspect that when I have to stop walking, I shall enjoy sitting, be able to feel the breeze, listen to the birds, watch an industrious little ant trying to move a rubber tree plant, in ways I can’t when doing my slow walking.

My main theological mentor has been Reuel Howe, from the time I discovered his book, Man’s Need & God’s Action. [It was published in 1955, hence the masculine generalist title.] Late in his life, I got to spend a few days with him at a conference. There he told of how his father had decided that the family should take some sort of settler deal in the Pacific Northwest, when Reuel was about 15, early in the 20^th century.

They had to homestead in the forest, where there were no roads. Carrying all their belongings, they hiked into the deep woods, where a fire claimed all their stuff. [Storm? I can’t remember the precise natural disaster that left them bereft.]

Reuel and his father walked back out to civilization to get tents and such to get them through until they could build again. They had to leave Reuel’s mother and little brothers and sisters. It took a long time. When they got back, the younger children were playing around a tin can on a tree stump, having a great time. In the can were wild flowers their mother had picked, to create a spot of beauty for her family. As Reuel said, “She took something bad and recycled it to make it good.”

The decline of old age can take away a lot. But it leaves empty spaces that can be recycled to be filled with new appreciations of the little wildflowers of life.

John Robert McFarland

THE SEASON OF UNCLE JOHNNY [M, 7-17-23]

CHRIST IN WINTER: Reflections on Faith & Life for the Years of Winter—THE SEASON OF UNCLE JOHNNY   [M, 7-17-23]

 

THE SEASON OF UNCLE JOHNNY

I am not a poet

I am an addict

Trusting my addiction

To turn the upset

Back to right

 

Running in high top shoes

Through long grass

My eye upon the ball

And the space between

The arc and the grounded

Slope of the little hill

 

Meting out my stride

To meet the roundness

In the nothingness

 

The gentle smacking

In the cracked leather

Of the old glove

Just above the awkward thunder

Of my own strides

 

Throwing it back again

In the sheer joy

Of knowing

That he cares enough

To hit the ball once more

 

John Robert McFarland

 

FAIRIES OF GRACE [F, 7-14-23]

CHRIST IN WINTER: Reflections on Faith & Life for the Years of Winter—FAIRIES OF GRACE [F, 7-14-23]

 

FAIRIES OF GRACE

 

They bring those miniature

moments when we are

tired, staggering,

about to put a hand

into the fire

That’s when they do

their intervention

So tiny,

you never see them

the almost embodied

definitions of grace

 

John Robert McFarland

 

CHURCH UNIFORMS [T, 7-11-23]

 CHRIST IN WINTER: Reflections on Faith & Life for the Years of Winter--CHURCH UNIFORMS [T, 7-11-23]

 

Part of my late-life soul work is giving thanks for blessings.

This morning, I became aware of how much I appreciate good clothing, and what a blessing it is. I was walking in heat and humidity, but my shirt felt fine. It’s an old shirt, one I wear only for walking. No holes or stains, but not okay for polite company, at least according to my fashion guide. I don’t normally notice something as mundane as the way a shirt feels--unless it feels bad, like scratchy—but I have been trying to “stay in the moment.” That shirt was not requiring anything of me, and it was helping me by making me feel comfortable on an uncomfortable day. That’s a moment of blessing.

By “good” clothing, I mean appropriate clothing, stuff that fits and is useful. I’ve never been a “clothes horse.” Basically, I like clothing that is comfortable and doesn’t scare little children. Beyond that, who cares?

Well, some people do, especially family members, when I show up in my green and red plaid Christmas pants, but that’s only once a year.

There is one exception to my “comfortable only” mantra: uniforms. I have always liked uniforms, because I always wanted to belong, and a uniform is the ultimate symbol of belonging.

That’s how politicians make tyranny successful: just give folks a uniform and they’ll follow you anywhere. As someone has said, “The only thing necessary for war is a military band.”

I have worn a lot of uniforms through the years: band and orchestra and chorus, Army ROTC, and its Pershing Rifles drill team, sports [physical ed, basketball, track, baseball]. I liked all my uniforms, even though my ROTC uniform was left over from WW II and was hot and scratchy.

My first uniform was for church, but for baseball, not worship. Forsythe didn’t have enough kids for a team in the 12-14 age range Church League in Oakland City, so I got dispensation from the league’s commissioner, Fred Roush, the twin brother of baseball’s Hall of Fame Edd Roush, to play on the town Methodist church’s team. Our uniform was a white t-shirt with a small felt M ironed onto the chest. I loved having uniforms for all my subsequent athletic teams.

And for my church teams. Yes, softball, but also worship.

Lay people used to wear uniforms to worship, what we called “church clothes.” Nobody wears “church clothes,” anymore, though. At least not to church.

As a preacher, I had different church clothes-- shirts with clergy collars, many different crosses on chains, a black pulpit robe and a white one…my uniform.

I’m not on those teams anymore, though. It is time to give those uniforms away. My baseball uniform wasn’t too hard to get rid of. I just took my spikes and jersey and pants and stirrup socks to the Opportunity House thrift shop. Their colors are bound to be what some local skinny kid needs to be on his team.

I can wear clergy shirts, without the collars, for walking. I can give my crosses away to others. But the robes are a problem. There aren’t many six-footers who want to wear those uniforms these days. Or wear those uniforms in any size.

No robes. No “church clothes.” Without uniforms, how will we know who the Christians are? We may be reduced to “they’ll know we are Christians by our love.”

John Robert McFarland

 

SATISFACTION AND ROSES [F, 7-7-23]

CHRIST IN WINTER: Reflections on Faith & Life for the Years of Winter—SATISFACTION AND ROSES [F, 7-7-23]

 

Of course, I already knew the word “satisfaction” when I was 40. I’d been preaching for 20 years. But John Faust gave me a different slant on it. That understanding has been useful to me ever since.

John was a Poly Sci prof at EILU, and our across-the-street neighbor, and member of the church I pastored, and a champion rose grower.

Early in our days as neighbors, he showed up at our door with a vase of magnificent roses and gave them to Helen. “I’m getting ready for a show,” he said, “and these were left over.” Meaning they weren’t good enough to show. But to our untrained eyes, they were perfect! That’s the difference between experts and those of us who just enjoy their work.

 

That became a matter of concern for me, because there was another member of our church who also grew roses, and exhibited them. and never won anything. I worried about him. He was old. He was fragile. He didn’t have much else going for him. I was young enough to think that winning was important.

So I talked to John about him. “You don’t grow roses for the competition,” John said. “You grow roses for the satisfaction. His roses give him a lot of satisfaction.”

As noted, I already knew the word, and the concept. But that was my teachable moment.  

We don’t really choose those moments. They rise up when all the stars are in alignment. And anytime that insight appears again in your life, you remember where you were and who was with you when you said, Eureka!

When I see beautiful roses, I am satisfied. Whenever I think of satisfaction, I see roses. Thanks, John.

John Robert McFarland

THE RESPONSIBILITY OF FRIENDSHIP [M, 7-3-23]

CHRIST IN WINTER: Reflections on Faith & Life for the Years of Winter—THE RESPONSIBILITY OF FRIENDSHIP [M, 7-3-23]

 

“You come up here right now and get this SOB out of this house or I’m going to kill him!”

“Okay,” I said. “Hang up the phone. I’ll call back. Let him answer.”

She did. I did. He did.

“Hey, I’ve got to come to Champaign today,” I told him. “Can we get a cup of coffee?”

“Sure. That would be great.”

I knew he was available. He’d just retired a couple of weeks before. That’s why Joan was at her wit’s end. His job had kept him out of the house most of every day and night. Now he was home all the time. As the old saying goes, “I married him for better or for worse, but not for lunch.”

I drove the 55 miles in record time. We got coffee. Then I said I had to go to a bookstore. We had to poke around in several, since none had a copy of Borden Parker Bowne’s Personalism. I wasn’t really surprised; it was out of print. Then I said that since it was lunch time we might as well eat together. He called Joan to see if that was okay. She said it was. We had lunch at our favorite greasy spoon. Then I suggested we try out the new fancy dessert bar at Krannert Center. It was supper time when I got home.

Helen was still working. She asked me what I had done that day. “Saved a life,” I said. She accepted that as normal.

It was a good day. Joan trusted me. Trusted me to save Jack’s life. Trusted me to save her sanity. Trusted me to know who was calling on the phone, just which SOB’s life was in danger, without identifying herself at all. She knew other people she could call, who lived closer, who could get Jack out of the house quicker, but she knew that she could trust me to do it without asking why.

Like many of my women friends, Joan started out at the wife of a man friend. But over time, she became a friend in her own right.

 To be trusted with the sort of responsibility she gave me, that is true friendship.

Although they never knew each other, I always think of Joan and Ben together.

Ben was a church member who never came to church. Ben wasn’t anti-church. He was just more pro-sofa. But when his heart went bad at the same time I started a year of chemo, we became best friends. We were both expected to die.

I called on him often, usually in his hospital stays as they became longer and harder. We talked together. We prayed together. We wept together. Finally, when his fate was clear, and mine was still undecided, he said, “I’ll die for both of us, and you live for both of us.”

Like Joan, Ben gave me a responsibility for life.

That is true friendship.

John Robert McFarland