Man Stuff

The paragraph in the church bulletin promised nothing beyond pancakes and wild hog sausage. No mention of special activities except that it would be a morning for the men of the congregation.

There was much more. I went to see who would show up at a men’s breakfast. Obviously, men - although we did have one woman come with her uncle. And being the open fellowship we are, she was made welcome and stayed for not only pancakes and wild hog sausage, but bacon and orange juice and milk and coffee that smacked slightly of that indistinct odor of blue jeans worn out in the wilderness.

A program was in the offing. An introduction and singing and an introduction of the speaker and the speaker and a prayer. The leader of the music portion was right when he said that men worshiping in song was glorious. Okay, maybe he didn’t say glorious. But there is something strangely moving when deep voices sing and sing loudly.

Looking around the room, there weren’t a lot of young men except for the teens that showed up with their fathers. Mainly forties and above and I wondered where the younger guys were. Probably at home with young moms and small children who look forward to that one morning of the week when dad is home and not in a hurry to be somewhere else.

But the rest of us were there. Thirty or forty strong, with our fill of pancakes and breakfast meats and still wondering why, exactly, the coffee tasted like it did.

During one part of the program, we were given a list of questions and were encouraged to use a few of them with someone we wanted to get to know.

One of the questions was “What would you like to be doing the moment Jesus comes again?” Before the group leader could move beyond that one, a voice from the side of the room spoke up, “I know where Terry wants to be.”

And as Terry, the group leader, paused, his friend turned to the rest of us and continued, “He wants to be baptizing his son!”

Incredible answer. In the instant when all heaven breaks loose, Terry was focused on making a relationship whole — restoring his own flesh and blood to God. The activity in the room slowed as the full meaning spread over us. And then, expressions of agreement and approval.

This was man stuff. The sharing of a simple but everlastingly important hope. You could sense every one in the room moving deeper as we saw and prayed for those special elements that distinguish just men from God’s men.

Both Sides of the Aisle

As the bride and her father made her way down the aisle, the tears began to flow. Happiness mixed with untold emotions washed over her.

The father, I’m sure, was glancing down a slate of wide-ranging options. “Should I stop and give her a hug?” “Should I tickle her like when she was little until the tears go away?” “Should I turn her around and whisk her away to safety . . . away from all of this . . . away from those things that are making her cry?”

Instead, he did what all fathers in this situation do. He grasped her arm a little tighter and kept walking toward the front of the church and her waiting groom — and new life. He walked her toward happiness and sadness and responsibility and the man she will walk beside through all of those things.

I’ve never had that experience being the father of two sons. In our two weddings, I have sat safely in my seat at the front and resigned myself to things being different. My momentary feeling of loss melting away at the realization that the beautiful young woman coming down the aisle was now a part of my family.

But I didn’t have to walk beside my sons to escort them to this new way of being. The groom just knows that his father is there if he’s needed. The bride’s father must make this walk, let go, and then sit in a seat much like mine.

At the reception, I asked my friend about that moment in the aisle. In the few seconds he had before moving on to greet hundreds of other guests, he described this surreal moment he shared with his daughter.

“As we started down the aisle, the audience began to stand. Suddenly, as they turned to welcome us, my daughter and I realized that we were seeing our entire lives painted before us. Faces from both sides of the aisle brought back memories of who we are and where we have been.”

What a wonderful picture! As I think about what that would have looked like for me, tears begin to pool in my eyes as well.

The Extraordinary Life

He came through the door of the conference facility and wandered in a question-mark pattern up to me. As he drew closer, I’m guessing that the flash of recognition struck him about the same time it did me.

“I know you,” I said.

“Yes, you do,” he said.

And thus began a short reminiscence that would review the past 30 years or so — not only of our lives but of all of our high school classmates.

Since I seemed to be a little more plugged into reunion information, he eventually asked me, “So did anyone in our class do anything extraordinary?”

I struggled at first. Probably the most famous of our friends is a university professor and author who has also touched thousands of lives through his leadership of a non-profit association of private schools. Then there’s the one who went to work with an international company and has done very well. And the middle school principal. And the teachers. And the truck driver. And the barber. And the housewife. And those who have struggled with illness. And those who have lost that physical struggle. And those who have weathered divorce and estrangement from family. And those who experience joy in every day. And those who are bent over with sadness and depression and loss.

All of those classmates didn’t come up in that conversation. But I began to think about them during the long drive home that Saturday night.

By Sunday morning, I was feeling a bit blue. When Preacher Mike pulled us to scripture, my spirit was lifted as he began to talk about the honored placed that each of us holds in the body.

Being a part of the body is extraordinary. To see the way that my high school classmates have dealt with daily life is an extraordinary journey in itself. To see children born or adopted and raised. To see sickness and death taken on headfirst. To see people who have been beaten down by life stand and laugh at the Tormentor. To see individuals who truly believe in God and trust in Him.

This is to live extraordinarily.

And so, after further thought, my answer is, “They have all lived extraordinary lives.”

Flap Tucked In

Attention to detail isn’t everything . . . but it is something more than just anything.

For almost 38 years, the love of my life has been training me.  Probably not in the way you think.  She hasn’t brainwashed me.  She hasn’t nagged me into submission.  She hasn’t presented me with ultimatums.  Or bribed me.  Or threatened me.

Just slowly, surely, she’s pointed me to things she likes — and things she doesn’t.  And when I’ve forgotten, she reminds me.  Lovingly.  Kindly.

What have I been trained to do?

When I try to make a list, there’s not much I can recall.  Our lives together have become so entwined that I have trouble seeing where she ends and I begin.  That’s a great feeling.

An even finer feeling is when I find myself doing something that I know I wouldn’t do had it not been for her and knowing that I will probaly always do it because of her.

Tonight, as I wrote a note in her Valentine, I thought of all of the holidays we’ve shared and the many notes and cards.  When I finished penning my thoughts, I slipped the card in the envelope.  And as I have done for years, I folded the flap over and tucked the edge in.

We don’t seal cards we give to each other.  I don’t know why.

I wrote the date on the flap.  I hid the card for tomorrow and look forward to receiving my envelope in the morning.  My card will be hidden in an envelope with the flap tucked in.  I don’t know why.

But knowing it will be that way gives me great peace.