What to Put in the Box?

T –minus ten days until we move. We have already packed most of our stuff into U-Haul boxes in preparation for our “take off” to Cranston, Rhode Island. We have even crammed tons of boxed and un-boxed possessions into our cars and delivered them to our new house. Until the renovations on our new home are complete, most of the deliveries have taken shelter in the garage, basement or closets. Their final resting place will have to wait until construction is complete.

The packing and unloading was easy. The difficult part was deciding what to put in the boxes and how to explain to Pako the Cat that his well marked home of eight years would soon be history. Through continuing and intense therapy, Pako is beginning to adapt to the idea, but what to take with us, give away or haul to the dump is much more difficult and, at times, painful! For example, my comfy chair and ottoman upon which I have napped and watched three Steeler Super Bowl victories, but has been ripped to shreds by Pako’s fine-tuned claws, did not make the cut. I am not sure where it will go yet, but it is not moving to Cranston. I do not suffer alone. Karin’s desk upon which she slaved on the way to her doctorate did not make the cut either. Deciding what goes or stays has definitely been an exercise in shared pain.

Other than the stuff that has outlived its usefulness or has been beaten into submission, what goes and what stays? We both worried about how our downsizing would be achieved. Karin is a bit more of a packrat than I am, but her ability to shed several layers of possessions has been impressive. I threw away or put in the “do not move” pile more than I thought. How did we do it? With credit for the idea given to Karin, we made the decision based purely upon sentimentality. On any item hanging by a thread, we asked, “Does it have any meaning to either one of us? Do we remember how it was acquired or who gave it to us? Does it have a story?” Any item that has meaning, brings to mind a person we love or has a story that brings joy to our souls is on the truck. No meaning, no story, no box, it’s not going. It will either find a new home or get re-cycled at the Barnstable Town Dump.

The moving experience is a reminder that, just like each of our prized possessions, everybody has a story. Every person is unique. God does not create with a duplicator. God creates each one of us, one person at a time. Then, we make our way down the path of life in our own peculiar way. We decide which twist or turn to take. Whatever twists we give to life or whatever turns we take, however, are of our own creation. They are our own unique possessions. We pack them away and they move with us no matter which way we go.

Here is an afterthought: Maybe if we all respect each other’s story, the little corner of the world in which we live will be a much more peaceful place.

In any event, we are ready for “TAKE OFF!”

 

 

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Demolition and Renovation

How many episodes of HGTV’s “Property Brothers” and “Flip or Flop” have I watched?

            Hundreds.

            For God’s sake and my sake, why?

            Neither require a single ounce of concentration.

            Turn on the DVR and veg out.

            Any other reason?

            As I grow up, less DRAMA is better.

            What is my favorite segment of each episode?

            Demolition!

            Ripping out kitchen cabinets.

            Sledge hammering and poking holes in ceilings.

            Finding the life-threatening problem hidden behind the “wall-that-has-to-come-down.”

            OMG! Asbestos! Leaky pipes! Knob & tube wiring!

            It’s the end of the world.

            Commercial break.

            Quick! DVR through the endless commercials.

            The world is teetering on the edge of disaster.

Thank the Lord who created the world and who cares enough to deploy Property Brother Jonathan to come to the rescue. With both skill and imagination, the “fix” is found. The renovation is completed on time and on budget. Tears of joy trickle down the property owners’ cheeks.

Thank the Lord that “weeping may linger into the night, but joy comes with the dawn.” Flipper Tarek’s “unrealistic-to-begin-with” $30,000 “reno” budget” may be shot, but Christina’s decorating genius saves the day. The flop is flipped quite profitably. “Now it’s time to find the next house to flip.”

           All is right with the world!

In the course of human events, sometimes television’s fake dramas “take on flesh and dwell among us.” We bought a house in Rhode Island. The kitchen and bath were, to quote Flipper Tarek, “total tear downs.” We decided to do much of the demolition ourselves. Lo and behold, it was as much fun as the Brothers, Tarek and Christina made it out to be. It is great therapy. Rip out those gross old kitchen cabinets and take a sledgehammer to the ugly green 1920’s tile on the bathroom floor and do not worry about making a mess. It does not matter. In demolition there is no harm and no foul. Once the wall comes down between the galley kitchen and the dining room, resurrection will be sure to follow, even if the Lucifer of knob and tube and asbestos wrapped pipes lies trapped behind the ancient lath and plaster. All will be well. The expert contractor and crew come on Monday.

            Go home.

            Take a couple of Ibuprofen to kill the pain from over doing it.

            Peacefully nod off to Never-Never Land.

A revelation: Maybe I have found my retirement calling: “Holy Moly Demolition & Destruction Company, LLC.”

A serious footnote: Wouldn’t it be awesome if we could demolish so simply the old stuff from the past that haunts us and trust that the future will be taken care of by an expert? Then, we really would be able to peacefully sleep.

A second footnote: Perhaps the One we acknowledge as Divine, the expert Higher Power, will help us take a sledge hammer and de-construct the residue of painful pasts and free us to face the future unafraid.

Maybe it’s time to offer the Divine Expert a job.

John E. Holt, Cotuit, Massachusetts

Where’s the Love?

It was not too long ago that,

            after angry words were spoken

or piercing insults made,

            I would hear one ask the other,

“Where’s the love?”

 

When walls are constructed

            to keep us apart,

when belittlement

            replaces encouragement,

“Where’s the love?”

 

When broad accusations

            align with hate-filled rhetoric,

when lies dominate truth,

            “Where’s the love?”

 

When threats replace diplomacy,

            and ears stop listening,

when self-interest displaces compassion,

            “Where’s the love?”

 

When one religion claims all truth,

            when you are “in” and I am “out,”

when judgment disposes of grace,

            “Where’s the love?”

 

Where’s the love?

            Was it here yesterday,

but gone today?

            Have we lost our souls?

 

I hope not.

 

John E. Holt, Cotuit, Masaachusetts

 

The Silence Is Deafening

Born into misconception.

For most of my young life, I was delusional about God. I lived with the misguided assumption that, if things get really bad, unfair or unjust, God, in due course, will fix it. I was not delusional about death. When your Dad dies at 49, death becomes a painful reality. I figured, however, that the death of anybody younger than 49 was something God should stop from happening.

Shortly after my arrival in Canandaigua, Pat approached me after church and asked if I would visit her daughter, Karla, at Strong Memorial Hospital in Rochester, New York. Since I was a student in a seminary just around the corner from Strong, I immediately agreed to visit.

Upon arrival at the pediatric wing, I heard loud laughter rising above the normal clamor of the hospital. I asked at the nurse’s station where Karla’s room was. The nurse pointed at the room from which the noise was sounding forth. I entered and found a very lively and loud teenager, wearing huge Teddy Bear slippers, holding court. She was clearly the queen of the unit. Clearly, Karla was no stranger to the hospital.

“Why?” I wondered.

I introduced myself. Instantly, we connected. I don’t know why. We just did.

We talked. What fun! Karla was full of life, love and energy. Occasionally, she would interrupt our chat, press the call button and a nurse hustled in. Karla gave the nurse her marching orders and, upon the nurse’s exit, the fun continued, until Karla abruptly stopped talking and began to cough; a violent, all consuming cough. A nurse appeared out of nowhere. She handed Karla a large inhaler. Karla, in the gaps between her coughs, pulled in deep breaths. Slowly, the coughing lessened and, at last, ceased. In short order, Karla resumed our conversation right where she left off prior to her coughing fit.

Now I interrupted her. “That’s quite a cough,” I said.

“It’s chronic,” she replied.

Soon thereafter, I left to go to class. I stopped at the nurse’s station. “What’s wrong with Karla?” I asked.

In antiquity, there were no privacy laws. The nurse replied, “She has CF.”

I had no idea what CF was. The nurse sensing my ignorance gave me a quick lesson: “Karla has Cystic Fibrosis. She will be lucky to live until she is 20.”

Shock! Anger! A deathblow to delusion.

“Why, God, why?”

I baptized Karla. She asked me to be her Godparent.

She grew from teenager to an amazing adult. No complaining. She frequently said, “Life is not a dress rehearsal.”

I officiated at her wedding. She was so beautiful…so happy….so full of hope, but very sick.

“Fix her, God, fix her!”

Karla braved a double lung transplant.  Infection set it.  I was with her when she died.

She was 23.

I conducted her funeral. It was a celebration. She lived more in 23 years than most of us live in a lifetime.

The older I get, the more questions I have. The easy answers, the delusions of my youth, tumble over like dominoes. More times than I care to count, I ask, “Why, God, why?”

The silence is deafening.

And yet, to lose hope is a mortal sin.

In remembrance of Karla, I choose to get about living, not dying.

“Life is not a dress rehearsal.”

 

John E. Holt, Cotuit, Massachusetts

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Backlit Jesus

With my retirement date dead ahead, I find myself waxing nostalgic. Until that BIG day when I hang up my robe and stole, my weekly posts will highlight those who have made my race worth running and a few of my God-Moments as well. 

Canandaigua, New York

July 1985 – September 1988

Early in my stay in Canandaigua, while exiting the sanctuary my eyes fell upon a picture hanging prominently on the wall at the back of the church. You could not miss it. It was huge and, at least to me, ugly as sin. It pictured a sweet-looking Jesus that, because he was backlit, could be adjusted to make him dark and evil looking or light and angelic. It was your choice and easy to do. With a clockwise turn of a knob, you could make Jesus bright, brighter or brightest. Of course, it you turned the knob counter-clockwise, Jesus was transformed from dark to darker to darkest. I’m not sure if it was a case of seeing Jesus as a glass half full or half empty, but it really did not matter to me. Darkest or brightest, I judged the picture to be hideous.

After too many Sundays of gagging when I exited the sanctuary, I announced to the Pastor that I was going to take the picture down. Pastor Dave stopped abruptly, turned and faced me and said, “I wouldn’t if I were you.”

“Why?” I asked him. “Do you like it?”

“No,” he said. “It’s ugly.”

“Ok then,” said I, “it’s coming down.”

Monday morning I made my way to the church basement, found the tools I needed to remove that wretched painting. I took it down and found a new home for it in a dark corner of the basement.

By early Tuesday afternoon, the phone was ringing off the hook with angry callers and unannounced visitors stormed the office to protest to Pastor Dave the removal of the “Backlit Jesus.” Pastor Dave threw me under the church van: “Pastor John took it down. You should talk to him.”

By late afternoon, one might have thought that I had shot and killed the family dog, but the real reason for the outpouring of anger was that the “Backlit Jesus” was hung on that wall in memory of Aunt Margaret. She was beloved and, even though she had been dead for many years, her memory lingered in the heart and soul of Canandaigua Church. I had not removed a painting. I had trampled on the memory of a beloved Church-Mom.

The “Backlit Jesus” was re-hung in its accustomed place by the end of my shift. To add sincerity to my repentance, I turned the knob clock-wise so that Jesus would shine “brightest” in memory of Aunt Margaret.

My comeuppance gave birth to a few learnings:

Never take down a painting, no matter how ugly it is, without asking first if there is a memory behind it.

Creating good memories is a great reason for living.

Loving memories of good people last for a very long time…maybe that’s the essence of eternal life.

John E. Holt, Cotuit, Massachusetts

 

 

The “Guilts”

With my retirement date dead ahead, I find myself waxing nostalgic. Until that BIG day when I hang up my robe and stole, my weekly posts will highlight those who have made my race worth running and a few of my God-Moments as well.

Canandaigua, New York
July 1985 – September 1988

Most people only see what a pastor does on Sunday. Hence, the belief that pastors have the best job in the universe, because we only work on Sundays, Christmas and Easter. Such a limited work schedule is not rooted in reality, but I agree that we have the best job in the world. We get paid for loving people! How good is that? Loving people, however, often results in witnessing some very difficult stuff that leaves in its wake unanswerable questions. Caught between love and pain with no magic wand to wave to resolve the latter into the former, when coupled with God’s seeming indifference to fix that which is broken, is extremely frustrating, if not faith-shaking.

As a rookie pastor in Canandaigua, I was frequently deployed to bring comfort to critically ill members of my flock. At first, I tried to bequeath verbal remedies, only to learn that human suffering is not relieved with trite expressions or by raising unrealistic expectations for a desperately desired outcome. Early in the game, I learned that whatever power I had was related to presence. “Being there” was better than inexplicable explanations.

At the end of any bedside visit, a prayer for healing was usually requested, if not required. After all, that is what I was paid to do. My prayers for healing, however, led to a severe case of the “guilts.” How could I pray for healing when the chances of such a miracle were nearly nil? How and why should I build false hopes? How could I sugarcoat an obvious truth: people live and people die. If God waves a magic wand and chooses to heal one and not another, is God really good? Does a good God heal Stevie’s 65 year-old Dad, but chooses to let my Dad expire at 49?

My “guilts” about praying for healing at bedside escalated to the point that I found myself trying to wordsmith my way out of using the word “heal.”

“O God, please make Harry feel better.”

If clarity was demanded, I resorted to muttering, “O God, please h%^# Aunt Shirley.”

When that failed, I beat a hasty retreat.

31 years later, I still make frequent visits to the bedsides of the sick and dying. I do pray for healing…every time. Now you have the right to ask, “PJ, how can you live with such hypocrisy? Don’t you frequently urge us to “say what we mean and mean what we say?” I mean what I pray only because what a wise woman once said as a small group discussed one of Jesus’ healing miracles. I said it was hard to accept that if Jesus was God-come-down-to-earth, why he would heal one and not heal all. I also mentioned my dilemma of praying for improbable healings. Nobody knew as we talked that Susan’s Mom was living through the last days of her life, until Susan spoke up and said with strength and conviction, “My Mom is dying. She may not be cured, but she will be healed!”

Susan righted my ship. Now I pray for healing constantly and not only for the dying, but also for the healthy. Healing is not curing. Curing is what doctors do. Healing is a matter of the soul. It is grasping the God-given peace, shalom, that already exists within us and is in the very air we breathe. Shalom is embedded in our DNA. It is a Divine gift waiting to be opened. When I pray for healing, I am simply praying for an opening of God’s gift, for the soul to recognize the shalom within. The miracle is that God’s peace, shalom, is eternally given. It is ours to find, not ours to lose.

John E. Holt, Cotuit, MA

Not Only for a Man of the Cloth

With my retirement date dead ahead, I find myself waxing nostalgic. Until that BIG day when I hang up my robe and stole, my weekly posts will highlight those who have made my race worth running and a few of my God-Moments as well.  

Canandaigua, New York

July 1985 – September 1988

Six months as the Sunday pastor at two small Upstate New York villages carried little risk. Turning my back on a successful career in industry, accepting a part-time position as a youth pastor and enrolling in seminary was a huge leap of faith, especially with two small kids and a stay-at-home Mom depending upon me for food and shelter. Only ONCE, however, did I question my own sanity.

Canandaigua was a large church with a sizable congregation. Dave was an experienced Reverend and an excellent preacher. My job on Sunday morning was to entertain the kids during the Children’s Time and, on occasion, take a turn in the pulpit. With the size of the congregation, Dave’s talent and my utter lack of knowledge of things Biblical or theological, I lived in fear of my debut. About a month into my tenure, however, the dreaded moment arrived. Pastor Dave gave the order, “John, you’re up this week.”

 I cannot remember how many drafts I wrote of that sermon. I also do not recall the topic or what I said about it. All I know is that on Sunday morning, I mounted the pulpit and with my pulse racing at nearly the speed of sound, preached the worst sermon….EVER! It was D.O.A. The people, although polite, stared at me like cows staring at a post.

After singing the final hymn, Pastor Dave gave the benediction, after which I fled to the solitude and safety of my office. I sat frozen and nearly lifeless in my chair as if I had been immobilized by a stun gun. As the noise of exiting congregants subsided, I began to develop a strategy to reverse course. After all, when the horse is dead, dismount!

Dave disturbed the peace of my pity-party. Before I could announce my resignation, he said kindly, “John, you know and I know that your preaching needs some work, but what do you think everybody is thinking about as they drive home?”

“They are probably thinking about my lousy sermon. It sucked.” I replied.

“No,” he countered, “they are thinking about what’s for lunch.”

Then, Dave settled me down gently. He said, “Just to be clear, John, perfection is not a requirement for ordination. There was only one Jesus and you are and never will be him. Just lead with your heart and all will be well.”

Dave was right. I am definitely not Jesus! I would not even have made the cut to be one of his chosen 12. I have preached many clunkers that crash landed. I have made more mistakes than I care to remember and hurt too many people that I love in the process. There have also been times when ME got in the way of GOD. I have regularly lifted my eyes to heavens and begged, “Forgive me, God, because I don’t know what I am doing and I hate what I have done.”

And yet, despite proprietary insight into my beleaguered humanity, I have tried my best to “lead with my heart.” To me, and maybe to God, that is all that really matters, and not only for a man of the cloth.

 John E. Holt, Cotuit, Massachusetts