might be baloney

The guest bedroom was gone. It was now the home of the Princess and her big girl bed. There was no coin toss, but I was assigned to the couch in the living room, and Nahna the inflatable mattress in what would become the bedroom for the new arrival. 

I had slept well, but my internal east coast alarm clock woke me too early to be stirring around the condo. Somehow, I fell back to sleep.

When I awoke, the darkness of the neighborhood was just being graced by light from the east. Thankfully, the predicted snowfall amounts didn’t occur in Lincoln Park. A few traces were scattered up and down the street.

Yesterday, our daughter thought the new baby might return to the womb if the ground had been covered in snow. But, that wasn’t the case. This was to be a day of bright sunshine and blue skies in every direction. But, the non-spring like cold temperatures were still hanging around along with a constant nippy wind.

Slowly, the condo came to life. Breakfast for the Princess came first. While coffee beans were ground, sporadic recanting of the training from the day before filled out the kitchen.

At some point, there was a loud clunk on one of the clear pained living room windows.  I caught a glimpse of a stunned bird. Somehow, the bird recaptured the needed balance and landed in a tree still bare from winter.

The bird appeared to be a downy woodpecker checkered in black and white with a small patch of red on the top of its crown. Perched on a branch in the warming sun, the small woodpecker slowly regained its senses—shuddering a few times before flying off.

Just before nine, our son-in-law whisked the Princess away to an indoor Pee Wee camp at a local fitness center. An action packed morning awaited her with exercise, creating some collectible artwork, and swimming.

While he was doing the drop off, Nahna and I took out the trash and the recycling, made a short walk to mail a couple of letters, and stopped in CVS to buy a newspaper for the new arrival.

When our son-in-law returned, we had one more review of today’s game plan. Our daughter and her husband made a final check of all the things they needed at the hospital. The Uber was ordered, photos taken, hugs exchanged, and they were out the door.

A little bit before 12 noon, Nahna had us organized to go pick up the Princess. The fitness center was near the heart of DePaul University. When we arrived, all of the kids were in the pool working with instructors. Soon, the camp was over, and Nahna knew the drill for securing the Princess for departure.

We made the ride back. I dropped Nahna and the Princess off in front of the condo, got them in, and I left to park the car.

It was nap time for the Princess. After reading a book to her, the Princess zonked out.

Nahna’s phone rang. It was our son-in-law. Excitement filled us. But, he was only letting us know that they were still waiting to get in the operating room. An emergency procedure for another person had bumped them out of their 12 noon slot. So, we were in a delay, a holding pattern.

We briefly heard from our daughter around 1:30 with an update and maybe a hint that they would be heading into the operating room soon.

For the remainder of the afternoon, no matter how I attempted to distract myself, my always present demon, William Worry, was perched up on my shoulder. In every slow tick of the clock, I worried that something was going wrong at the hospital.

Finally at 5:05 p.m. central time, our son-in-law called. Hudson Leo Reinking had arrived. A big boy at 9 pounds 12 ounces and 21 inches in length. It had been a long afternoon, but his report was good.

I was relieved.

Seems like I forgot about the word “Trust” on the back of the tractor-trailer we had passed on Wednesday morning.

The Fairfield Inn treated us well— good sleep. The breakfast spread hit the spot too. After breakfast, we regrouped in the room, then checked out, reloaded the car, topped off the tank, and found our way back to I-65 north.

All along our journey, tractor trailers were traveling on both sides of the interstate in heavy numbers. Sometimes, we even saw flatbed train cars hauling the trailers too.

This morning, I noticed on the back of a trailer from the Danny Herman Trucking Company the following words:

Isaiah 40:30: Trust.

Mr. Herman’s company is based in Mountain City, Tennessee. Scripture references are standard on the back of all of their trailers.

I-65 is straight and flat.  Both sides of the interstate are dominated by farmland. No signs of spring are visible on this gray overcast morning. In fact, if I didn’t know this was April, this morning easily looks and feels like November or February.

From the roadway, singular farmhouses, barns, and fields seem lonely, like they are looking for spring to swoop in for a rescue.

But occasionally, I see a slight sign of spring. A hopeful farmer has given his fields an early plowing turning the dark rich soil over as a message to the remnants of winter—you need to leave, I’m ready to plant.

We continue passing trucks. Soon we are connecting with I-90 that will carry us into Chicago. Behind us are once thriving industrial towns of Gary and Hammond, Indiana. Brief glimpses of Lake Michigan are cast in the distance, and it isn’t long before the skyline of Chicago comes into view.

With minimal unpleasant language from me, we are finally on Lakeshore Drive. Familiar landmarks serve as a reminder of poet, Carl Sandburg, poem “Chicago.” Yes, we are in “the City of Big Shoulders.”

The LaSalle Avenue exit is waiting for us. A few more turns and we stop in front of our destination. The street is deserted. New water pipes had been installed by the city. Per order of the city, no parking is allowed on the street prior to 7 p.m. until repaving is completed.

Our son-in-law is present to help us unload. The goal is one trip. With hands full, we make the hike up the stairs to the third floor.

It is a good aerobic workout, and worth every step. At the top landing, our daughter and granddaughter are waiting. The radiant, expectant mother is about to pop, and our granddaughter is dressed like a princess.

The Commander Supreme, now called Nahna, is quickly out of control with a bag of surprises for the Princess. Her sweet charms as a grandmother work their magical bonding and with no hesitation from the Princess, they are off to play.

After lunch from Potbelly Sandwich Shop, the afternoon is a combination of running errands and instruction. We receive instruction on  everything related to keys, vehicles, technology, and all of the finer details on how to manage the routines of the Princess. I’m told we will be quizzed before the expecting parents depart for the hospital on Thursday.

Gray clouds, no sunshine, below average temperatures, and a brisk wind keep us inside after the running of errands. Plus, the weather forecast called for the late afternoon rain to change to snow with a possible accumulation of 1-3 inches. Local media reports this April in Chicago has been the second coldest on record in 130 years.

Around lunch time, our daughter had received the orders from the doctor and confirmation of when to be at the hospital on Thursday.  After dinner, she and her husband made sure they had everything ready for the trip to the hospital. They were planning to Uber to the hospital.

Large snowflakes were falling steadily as we prepped for bed. I watched the flakes in light cast by streetlights as they tumbled toward the hard surfaces below.

Again, I was ready for some sleep, but thankful for a safe arrival in Chicago, and thankful that Nahna and I are available to help out.

I thought back to the Isaiah scripture reference on the the back of the truck with the word— Trust.

Thursday, April 19 would be a day grounded in trust. Trust that the good Lord would continue the baby journey with our daughter and her husband, and trust that all the medical personnel involved with this birthing are at their best.

This last week has been a blur. Too many responsibilities on the radar, life is moving too fast. Departure day for heading out to help with the coming of grandchild number three had arrived.

On Tuesday, April 17, we were hoping to be on the road heading toward Chicago by six, latest seven. At 6:30 a.m. we were pulling out of the driveway. The goal was to make it to Lafayette, Indiana. That would leave us with two to three hours on Wednesday morning to make it into the Windy City.

We had been experiencing wacky weather this spring in Richmond. In the 80s on Saturday, and now in the 30s as we are leaving. But, this morning, the sun was out with some clouds. A familiar route awaited us— Patterson to 288, to I-64, to I-81, and back to I-64 again pushing west. Past Lexington, Virginia, the teasing of the sun on treetops was gone. A gray sky contrasted early pops of color dominated by the purple flower of the redbud trees.

The ferocious storm front that caused havoc on Sunday left behind swollen, muddy rivers and creeks. As we prepared to exit Virginia and enter West Virginia, it appeared that snow was falling against the back drop of the mountains.

Sure enough, a flurry of fine flakes awaited us. Digital signs in the median flashed a winter weather advisory. Here we are twenty-five days into spring, and winter is making up for what it failed to deliver.

We kept going, admiring the snow-covered landscape, and we guessed it had steadily fallen during the night or just before dawn. The good news was the road surface had not been impacted, so we kept moving.

My rapidly aging body needed a potty break. We stopped at the West Virginia Welcome Center. I commented to the friendly lady at the information desk, “nice spring weather.” She responded, “Yes, I don’t know what we did to deserve this.”

We survived the twists, turns, and steep climbs of the West Virginia Turnpike. Soon the gold dome of the capitol building in Charleston was in sight. Parallel to the interstate at times ran the bloated Kanawha River where a single tugboat pushed an empty barge upstream.

The snow-covered hills had disappeared, and north of Charleston, we opted to exit 64 and pick up U.S. 35. Eventually, U.S. 35 would carry us into Ohio. The further north we pushed, the more the sun played pick a boo. But, we were well past Indianapolis before the sun decided to really show up.

Traffic around Indianapolis hinted at the rush hour exodus, but we kept moving at a steady speed. We connected with I-65 and Lafayette starting appearing on the mileage signs.

Wasn’t long before we had taken a Lafayette exit, the Commander Supreme’s research landed us a room at a Fairfield Inn by Marriott.  We checked in and figured out a dinner plan.

Our oldest daughter, her husband, and two-year-old daughter live in Chicago. Their second child was due April 26, but the ultrasounds revealed a baby in the breeched position. So, we are coming in early to help out with a bumped-up arrival date.

After a good dinner at the 25-year-old Lafayette Brewing Company, we purchased a couple of sweet treats from Kathy’s Kandies. Our iPhone navigator, Nigel, complete with a British accent, led us back to the Fairfield Inn.

Sleep was needed. I’m hoping for a boy!

During the last week of September 2017, fourteen members from Trinity United Methodist Church  attended a conference for church leaders at the Church of the Resurrection (COR) in Leawood, Kansas. This is the largest United Methodist church in America— 20,000 members, four campuses.

Led for 27 years by Adam Hamilton, COR today has moved from its humble beginnings in a funeral home to become a mega church. Overtime, COR has developed an annual leadership conference that is a hotbed for the latest trends and ideas related to churches.

Our team consisting of laity and staff attended with no desire to mold Trinity into a mega church. We went in the search mode, open to new ideas and strategies.

From Wednesday thru Friday, the pace was nonstop.

General sessions presented a variety of speakers from seasoned veterans to fire hot millennial church leaders.

After each presentation, like an established talk show host, Adam Hamilton, conducted insightful interviews, peppering the experts with worthwhile questions.

On Thursday afternoon, the session with Tony Morgan, founder of the Unstuck Group, was an attention grabber. Mr. Morgan’s topic— Seven Stages of Church Life Cycle: Moving the Church from Being Stuck to Unstuck, was a real look at the life cycle of a church. Mr. Morgan’s presentation was sobering with a serious sense of urgency.

His work is grounded in four areas: assessment, planning, structure, and action. Additionally, a bell curve is used to capture the phases of life for a church.

Seven phases are the focus for church life. These range from the initial launch of the church to the final sad action— placing the church on life support. Throughout this session, I kept thinking about Trinity and where we might register on the bell curve.

Mr. Morgan’s presentation impacted every member of our team. He touched a nerve.

It is no secret that for several years, attendance and interest in churches is in decline in America. Our church, Trinity, hasn’t been immune from this downward trend. An analysis of our attendance data over the last 15 years confirms Trinity’s slippage.

For the last eight years, I’ve had the privilege of being a part of the staff at Trinity. I am no expert on churches as my prior life was in public education. However, I do have some observations.

Within my first year of work at Trinity, aside from an annual financial audit, staff evaluations, and a required charge conference at the conclusion of each church year, it appeared that we had no formal assessment or evaluative tools neither internally or externally to really take a close look at how the church is doing.

From my work in education, I can remember schools I served participating in an evaluative/accrediting process with the Southern Association of Colleges and Schools. Local fire and police departments, periodically are assessed by professional organizations. Such evaluative assessments for accreditation are utilized by other professionals in our communities as well. A timeline for these evaluative interruptions might be every 3 to 5 years.

For the most part, a simple template is used— evaluate everything that is currently in place, make recommendations for improvement, and develop a realistic strategic plan.

But, there is one key ingredient, the assessment is conducted in cooperation with the local organization, but with the expertise coming from individuals outside the local organization.

With churches this would be a significant shift in evaluative thinking. But, from my humble perspective a shift that churches can’t avoid if they expect to keep their doors open.

At Trinity, we are taking a risk.  We entered into an agreement with Mr. Morgan’s Unstuck Group. Our twelve months of work is in its initial phases.  I hope to live through this experience to tell you about it!!

Several years ago in the aftermath of Hurricane Katrina, I had the privilege of accompanying our senior high youth to coastal Mississippi. On our last day of work, a member of the church where we had been staying during the week stopped to talk with me.

He wanted to thank us for coming to help. But, he also wanted to share an observation.  With tears in his eyes, he said, “The church people are the only ones left. They are the only ones still sending teams down to help us. Everyone else has pulled out.”

Now, I know churches are far from perfect. We have our flaws.

However, if we churches expect to “pull out” of our current mire, then we must significantly adjust our current scope of evaluating and assessing.

This means we must commit to assess every piece of our church beyond our normal predictable routines.

Who knows, disrupting those predictable routines might salvage a few churches.

Last year after Easter, I thought I had a clever idea.

For the last seven years, one day prior to Ash Wednesday, I take a shovel and a post hole digger, and walk out to the front lawn of our church.

I scout out a spot with good visibility from Forest Avenue. Next, I start the process of digging out a hole for the placement of our wooden cross.

But on this spring morning after Easter, I thought— why should I dig a different hole every year for Lent and this cross?

What might happen if I measured the depth of the hole by marking it on the cross before I tug it out of the ground? Then I could take that measurement, match it to the length needed on another piece of 4×4, and cut a separate piece to put back into the hole. And to finish it off, I could screw on to the top of the 4×4 a zinc coated handle that would allow me to easily pull the timber out of the ground next year.

Sounded like a reasonable idea to me. I found a scrap piece of 4X4, measured twice, made the cut, installed the handle, and dropped it into the hole. It was a good fit. The metal handle sat below the grass mowing line out of the range of a lawn mower blade.

So here we are in 2018, Ash Wednesday is rapidly approaching. I start thinking to myself. I’ve got to get the cross out front. Then my aging brain starts to play games with me. Didn’t you place a special timber into the ground last year? Remember, you were hoping not to keep digging a hole for the cross every year.

That was a year ago. Did I really complete this project?

So on the afternoon of Monday, February 12, I walked out to the front lawn.

I knew the general area where the cross was placed each year. With my eyes glued to the winter colored turf, I paced back and forth multiple times.

I’m thinking to myself that zinc coated handle should be easy to see. I keep walking and scanning. I’m so intent on my search that I stumble over a pumpkin stem leftover from our annual fall pumpkin sale.

I expand the search, and I find an indention in the turf. It gives me hope. I poke around with my fingers expecting to feel that metal handle, but no luck.

Frustrated, I start to think did you really cut a timber and slide it into that hole last year?  Out of annoyance, I stop my search for the afternoon.

On Tuesday, I return. This time, I’m kind of scuffing my feet along the turf. I’m hoping that the soles of my shoes will hit against that metal handle. I search my memory trying to remember where I dug the hole last year.

I’m sure anyone watching from the building or a passerby must be thinking what in the world is that old man doing? He keeps trudging back and forth with his head down— is he ok? Is he doing some type of penance before Lent?

By this time, I too am beginning to wonder about myself as well. Did I really sink that 4×4? Tomorrow is Ash Wednesday. Looks like I’m going to be digging a new hole.

On the morning of Ash Wednesday, from 7-8 a.m. our church hosts ashes, blessings, and coffee. A person can drive into our  long driveway receive the sign of the cross and a blessing from one our ministers and get a free cup of coffee. For two years now this has been a successful event with church members, neighbors, and strangers pulling in for this experience. We’ve had over 80 people each year.

In between taking photos of the morning’s activities, I head back to my plot searching again for my hidden handle. Clearly, luck isn’t on my side, the handle isn’t spotted.

Again, I give up. I head inside spending the remainder of the morning working on my to-do list. After midday for some reason, I’m drawn back to that plot of turf.  The southern exposure from the winter sun is casting a brightness on the front lawn.

I start walking again. Head down. Scanning. Then just a couple of feet to my right my old eyes catch the slightest weathered sparkle. I move closer to the spot, and it is the elusive handle.

Quickly, I check below, and it is still connected to the timber. I can’t believe I finally found it. Yes, there is a God! Maybe He had grown weary watching me pace back and forth.

So, now, all I had to do was wiggle the timber, pull on the handle, and slide it out of the wet ground.

I jiggle the timber up a bit, give a few soft tugs, and the timber is cooperating. I pull harder on the handle, and just like that the handle pulls away from the timber.

A minute ago, I was thanking God profusely, and now on the front lawn of His church words only fit for a potty were swirling through my brain.

I wasn’t about to be defeated by a handle malfunction. I used a pry bar to wrestle the timber around a bit more, and then I called in my secret weapon, the afternoon caretaker of our building, Bobby McShaw. Younger and stronger than me, Bobby took a couple of tugs on the timber, and then he pulled it right out of the ground. I thanked Bobby for being my instant hero.

But, my work wasn’t done. I carried the cross out to the lawn from the Eaton Hall mechanical room. Once at our cross site, I gently eased its base into the hole. It fit snuggly. Then I tacked on the purple cloth and walked away.

Upon reflection, I wondered to myself why did it take me three days to find the timber’s handle? Why did I head back out for one more search? Cast with just the right angle of bright sunlight, why did my eyes pick up that handle?

Deep in my heart, I believe the good Lord nudged me back out there.

He was quietly saying to me—ok, Bill, go one more time. Open your old eyes. Use my sunlight. Don’t give up.  Persevere.   

I have not been an avid follower of the 2018 Winter Olympic Games from South Korea, but one headline caught my attention:

Kikkan Randall Wins Her First Medal In Cross-Country — A Gold — After 18 Tries

At age 35, Kikkan Randall is the only mother on Team USA. With her teammate, Jessica Diggins, they won the gold medal in the team sprint free final in cross-country skiing.

By 0.19 seconds Diggins and Randall edged out the Swedish team. They had been battling the Swedes the entire hilly course of 4.66 miles. Until this victory, no American woman athlete had ever won a medal in cross-country skiing.

So what do a zinc covered handle screwed to a 4×4 timber and an Olympic gold medal in cross-country skiing have in common?

Probably nothing.

But take another minute, and think about part of verse 25 from the first chapter of James:  “persevere, being not hearers who forget, but doers who act.”

That first time gold medal in cross-country skiing was all about perseverance.

During this season of Lent, I need to consider my own perseverance by answering these two questions:

Am I going to be a forgetful hearer or a doer who acts?

Much of my life, I have been a forgetful hearer.

If I take a careful look at my world, there is no way I can continue to be a forgetful hearer.

Just like the good Lord nudged me one more time to look for that handle, he is going to continue to nudge me closer to become a doer who acts.

It is clear He needs my help.  

The real question is— will I respond to His nudges and use my perseverance to assist?

Depending upon your age, you might remember singer/songwriter, Michael Martin Murphey. His biggest hit song was titled “Wildfire”.  Mr. Murphey had the unique ability to be successful with two audiences of listeners. His crossover capacity was effective in Adult Contemporary and also Country.

In 1990, Mr. Murphey re-invented himself as a singer of cowboy songs. This proved to be a wise gamble. His first album called Cowboy Songs earned gold certification for selling over 500,000 copies.

That album is one of my favorites. It is a mix of classic cowboy tunes, and newer compositions that depict the challenges of being a real cowboy—none of that Hollywood stuff.

One song “What Am I Doing Here?” — captures my feelings about a conference I’m attending.

The chorus states: “So, what am I doing here Lord?  What am I doing here? There’s got be something better out there, so what am I doing here?”

Starting on Friday, January 12 and running through noon on January 13, I’m a participant in the Candidacy Summit put together by the Virginia Conference of the United Methodist Church.

There are 33 of us, women and men, all age groups, with diverse backgrounds who are trying to sort out what a ministry path might look like.

For me, I’m focused on learning about the requirements for becoming a Local Licensed Pastor.

The Summit is being held at the Roslyn Retreat Center just off of River Road in western Henrico County, Virginia.

The Roslyn Center is managed by the Episcopal Diocese of Virginia. The beautiful, rolling grounds are framed by majestic trees, the Kanawha Canal and the James River, an active train track, and stunning vistas in every direction.

Check in starts at 10:30, followed by an opening worship service in the Chapel. The first session before lunch is an overview of the candidacy journey.

After lunch, a panel with expertise in each possible ministry path, conducts an informal, but informative discussion about the journey.

Once our questions are answered by the panel presenters, we move forward into three unique sessions.

All of the activities are designed to provide good information about the assorted ministry paths. But, the leadership team has also broken us down into three small groups for an assortment of activities. These are designed for us to get to know each other as candidates, but also for the leadership team to start learning a bit about us.

The first one is the River of Life: A Life Review Activity. This exercise is based upon a book by author, Joyce Ann Mercer. Sent to us before the summit, the exercise contains six reflective categories to ponder. The goal is for me to draw my own River of Life capturing a wide range of life’s experiences. Then in our small groups we share our rivers. Our small group leader, a local Methodist minister, was a patient and wise guide as we shared our stories.

Our next activity brought all of the participants back together for insights related to our StrengthFinders’ survey. Formulated by Don Clifton and now part of the Gallup Organization this survey gives a participant a snapshot of their Signature Themes.

This session was very insightful as the leader had a wealth of knowledge about the survey process. His skills were grounded in helping us understand the practical applications for what we had learned about ourselves. But more importantly, he was able to help us project how our strengths and themes might be woven into a pastoral leadership environment.

After dinner, our small group was back together. This time the focus was on The Call, and the reading and study of Luke 5:1-11.

In this exercise, the scripture reading was read aloud by assorted participants. Our leader directed us to listen carefully during each reading for a word that resonated in our minds. Then we shared our selected word and offered a rationale as to why that word was important to our discernment.

Our day of work was closed with a tranquil worship service in the Chapel. Our leaders gave us a few reminders for Saturday morning, and we dismissed for some sleep.

Before breakfast on Saturday, we were back in the Chapel for a Morning Eucharist. After breakfast, we learned about the Appointment System process followed by a session on Spiritual Growth and Self-Care.

Next, we were back with our small groups, and a very interesting exercise with a table full of photographs. Our instructions had us circling the table and studying the photographs. After several quiet minutes of study, our leader directed us to choose a photograph. Once we had selected a photograph, we were asked to share the significance of our choice in relation to our lives and the candidacy.

The packed morning had moved quickly. We were ready for the closing worship service. Once again, the thought and planning for each chapel service reflected the strength of the leaders for the Summit.

Lunch was optional. The big breakfast was still sticking to my ribs. Goodbyes and thanks were shared, and I headed home.

While I wasn’t overloaded with information, my old brain was swirling a bit. I kept coming back to the River of Life exercise. I was drawn to the stories from the people in my small group.

My attention was captured by their transparency. They held nothing back relating to the hardships of their journeys. Addiction, parents who were addicts, failed marriages, failed relationships, instability with careers, and health issues for children.

Yet, I heard from their hearts, their capacity to survive and endure, despite these extremely challenging circumstances. But without question in the scars and wounds of their living was the light and acceptance of the Lord. Each attributed their progress and fragile stability to the good Lord. Their hearts were grounded in His love.

The passion of these stories will stick with me for a long, long time, and their openness will make me more carefully examine my call and discernment.

So, like that cowboy out on the range, I continue to wonder “what am I doing here Lord?” What am I doing at this Candidacy Summit?

I’m reminded of Jacob wrestling with God in Genesis.

My mind keeps returning to the people in my small group.

As individuals they have wrestled with extreme life circumstances. And despite these obstacles, a restorative God has wrestled them away with his grace and love.

I think I will continue to wrestle with God about my interest in becoming a Local Licensed Pastor. That checklist of requirements is intense.

The wrangling required to make that decision will not be easy. I’m sure tangling with God isn’t supposed to be easy. But he is a willing supplier of resources—James 1:5:

 “If any of you is lacking in wisdom, ask God, who gives to all generously and ungrudgingly, and it will be given you.”

Clearly, I’m going to need that wisdom.