"On the Christmas Spirit"

spirit:  n.  The manner or style of something.

It is that time of the year, Christmas. There is enough sugar and fat in the excessive amounts of candy, cookies, and goodies being produced in kitchens everywhere to clog the arteries of the strongest of men. Christmas baking for me consists of melting chocolate chips in the microwave and adding a variety of ingredients to create delectable, tasty treats. If not enough to cause a heart attack, they have the potential to at least make a person very sick.

As a gardener, I dispose of grass clippings, weeds, and branches at a local business. The debris is shredded and converted to compost or other planting mediums. I maintain it’s the perfect enterprise. They charge me for my dumping, then I pay for a completed product, one for which I have provided the basic resource.

The dump site is managed by several young men, most of them in their twenties. As tends to happen while I am out and about, I have become acquainted with some of them as they share parts of their lives while I am paying to dump my load. I know that one of them was recently married; another is taking some time off from college in order to get a better perspective of the direction he wants to go; another played football in high school and now spends his weekends in a “royal battle” of sorts. They greet me with a smile and know by now I will refuse their offer to help me unload.

A large container for gift-giving was purchased and will be filled to the brim with candy then dropped off at the refuse site today. One could say I have the Christmas spirit.

Being filled with the Christmas spirit is not a phrase typically applied to me. Never a “bah, humbug” person, the holiday itself is simply not that important to me. Lights, decorating, the tree—all things I can live without. A daughter expressed it well when she said, “You always did and have put on a good Christmas face for your kids and grandkids.” It’s good to know I haven’t mortally damaged my family’s love for the holiday.

A seeming contradiction, ornaments are made for each of the children and grandchildren every year, my share of gifts are added under the tree, a tradition of selfless gift-giving for the grandgirls is being established by giving them money to donate to others. I do not have a love for this holiday. But then, I have no love for any other holiday either.

Holidays come and holidays go, and so it will be with Christmas.

Over the years I have wrestled with what could only be perceived as a negative outlook, as I questioned the point of bringing a tree into the house, the obscene amount of “stuff” collected under that tree, all culminating in said gifts being dispersed, many to be forgotten before the next holiday comes along.

This is where I have landed, however—one day out of 365 is not a statement of a person’s life. Kindness, generosity, empathy, caring, selflessness, and love are important qualities that need to be manifest in one’s daily life and not limited to presenting a beautifully wrapped package to be opened on Christmas. They are traits that should be applied to all of life and the living of it, not just during a particular season.

And so, in a personal gesture, also known as “having the Christmas spirit,” I head out with my very large box of candy, delivering it to the guys at Rexius Fuel. It is my way of thanking them for revealing parts of their lives to me and for allowing me to get to know them. People matter. Holidays not so much.

  

"For Your Eyes Only"

It was, in a word--horrible.  While I am certain there are many things in life much worse, the Sunday my grandgirls were told it was time to say "Goodbye" to their family pet was as terrible, as awful as I had expected it to be.

I had been asked to stay with the girls while Mom and Dad took Tank to the vet.  It was time.  At 14, his vision had diminished due to cataracts.  His hearing almost gone, he hadn't heard me when I came in the door.  Arthritis in his back hips made it increasingly difficult for him to carry his massive body and to navigate the steps outside.  Tumors were developing, and the bones were visible on his once-vigorous frame, even though he ate.

Tank's deteriorating physical condition had been evident for months, and the family openly talked about the inevitability of the situation, that he was coming to the end of his lifespan. Still, as often happens in many areas of life, reality was a different story, a shock, a surprise.

The girls were given as much time as needed.  They hugged him, covering his body with theirs.  Lying on the floor next to him, talking to him and petting him, their grief and sobs were gut-wrenching and heart-breaking.  Now 10 and 12, he had been with them their entire lives. How does one let go of a best friend, a companion?

The thought quietly entered my mind, and I shared it with the family.  A letter, written by each of the girls, to Tank, their "forever" buddy, telling him all the things they wanted to say, all the things they wanted him to know and hear.

And so, after my daughter and son-in-law left, the grandgirls sat down at the table and began to write.  The crying subsided as they wrote their letters to Tank, expressing their feelings and their thoughts in words, on paper.  I told them what they wrote was personal and could be tucked away forever, shared with no one, if they so chose.

"That was helpful," the little one said, as she folded up her letter, heading off to put it in her memory box.  The older one agreed as she put hers in a small baggie along with some of her pup's fur.

I am a proponent of this kind of writing.  It cannot be called "writing a journal."  Journals are diaries.  This is venting, emptying, unloading from the very most inner depths of a person, a cleansing and cleaning out, if you will.  Though there may be no scientific data to support it, it is my experience and conviction that something positive happens when one voices in such a manner, transferring from within to paper.  After all, isn't that the basis, the essence of poetry, music, composition?

Many years ago, I was in the darkest of dark places.  All alone, I questioned all that I believed to be true.  I know and understand hopelessness, dreading the beginnings of yet another day.

I began writing, simply writing.  Everything I thought, everything I felt, all the doubts, all the questions, all the frustrations began pouring out of me onto the paper.  And, for me, all of the anger I felt towards a God who I was certain had neither heard my prayers nor answered them, who I knew cared nothing about me.

I have no idea how long this continued, but it was over quite a lengthy period of time. Despondent, filled with only negative, troubled over my life and how I was living it, I remember sitting at the kitchen table and filling page after page.  Punctuation, grammar, and form be damned, I just wrote and wrote and wrote.  

There came a time when I was finished, though I didn't realize it when it happened.  There was no final chapter, but the need to go there no longer existed.  Just as one does not go digging through a garbage can, there was no need to re-read all that had been released, and it went in the trash.  No one ever read the writings, and only God and I even knew of their existence.  

By that time an inner healing had begun.  We all know that physical wounds cannot heal as long as infection is present.  So it is with our inner beings.  That which is negative is toxic and must be removed.  Personally, that happened as I wrote letters to God, honest and real. I had no idea when I began that I would end up at His doorstep, but I did.

For those of you in a chronic set of circumstances, behavior, or memories which continue to haunt, daunt, or taunt you, robbing you of joy and peace in your life and the living of it, may I make a suggestion?   Find a quiet place, a piece of paper and pen or pencil and just begin writing whatever comes to your mind.

While talking with a friend or even a professional has value and merit, I feel there is no substitute for pencil and paper, baring one's soul in black and white, sweeping out the recesses and corners of one's mind.  Try it.  You just might be surprised at the outcome.
It costs nothing, and for me, it was one of the most valuable experiences of my life.  

And it is for your eyes only.

"On Caring"

care:  v.  to be concerned about, have an interest in; to be mindful of
          n.  close attention; concern; responsibility; the object of watchful attention or anxiety

"Thanks for checking in on me.  I need that sometimes."  The succinctness and directness of her response surprised me.  All I had done was send a text, inquiring as to how her leg was. "We all do," I answered.

The 12-year-old grandgirl had taken a knee to her thigh in a basketball game the day prior, and I had been wondering how she was.  I was watching another part of the game when it happened. When my eyes turned back to her, she was on the floor, writhing in pain as she grabbed her leg.  She's a tough one, not prone to drama, so I knew she was genuinely hurt.  I wanted to see how the injury felt after Mom and Dad's physical therapy and a night's rest.  

Caring.  To care.  About someone or something.  The thing about caring is either you do or you don't.  Caring cannot be fabricated or feigned.  Either there is a genuine concern or there isn't, and that is evidenced and felt.  Saying one cares is not proof of nor verification that one does either. "Words are cheap."  

There is no expense involved, no purchase necessary when it comes to caring about a fellow human being or the circumstances in their lives, but its importance and value can be quite substantial and should never be underestimated.    

Recently, a friend was experiencing a difficult time. "You doing OK?" I asked.  "Yes.  Your caring makes me feel better."  It was an unexpected response, but one that has provoked much thought.  

It takes so little to make a difference in other's days, in their lives.  In addition, real, valid, and genuine concern is a bold contrast to that which is counterfeit, superficial, contrived.     

The nature of mankind is to be wrapped up in "me, myself, and I."  Living outside of that "box" is a most rewarding and vital experience, providing personal benefits as well.  I am most enriched when I have shared myself with others, not in the giving of material things, but from within. 

It is always those things which money cannot buy which are the most valuable.  


"He cares for you." 



  

"On Fervor"

fervor:  an intense, heated emotion; passion; ardor; passionate enthusiasm for a cause

2016 is the year our country, the United States of America, is voting in a new President. And we are everything except "united."

There have been endless rallies, with crowds of people gathered together to burst forth into applause when a point of agreement is expressed in a speech.  Planned, designed, and orchestrated with music and balloons to be the equivalent of a New Year's Eve party there is cheering, yelling, smiling; jeering and ridiculing the opposition; maligning in order to validate one's position. And these are just the candidates.  

The line has been drawn in this Presidential election of 2016.  There are few who are half-way or half-hearted in their support  Many are as much against a candidate as they are for.  

Politics is a messy business, but this one seems to have brought out the worst in people. A total lack of civility has surfaced as personal attacks are made upon one another by our citizenry.  Disagreement is often expressed in the form of vile, vicious comments.  Social media has made it easy to hide in anonymity.

Struck by a single picture, one of a candidate and their supporters clapping and yelling with maximum enthusiasm, I had this thought:  Oh, that mankind had that same kind of fervor for those things which are long-term, eternal, for the spiritual.

Having God and the things of God as the focus of passion, however, is neither viewed as being important nor politically correct.

And so we shall see the results of misdirected fervor of the mortal, temporal kind.

God help us all.   



"A wise man builds his house upon a rock."

  

  


      

"On Death"

death:  cessation of life and all associated processes

No longer with us; passed over, passed away, or simply, passed; on to a better place; free at last.  There are a variety of terms used to express death, many of them to soften the starkness of that word, of that experience.

There has been a death in our family.  Our stepmother has died.  At the age of 98, she was the last of our parent's generation.  The "torch" has been passed on to my two brothers and me.  We are now the elders of the Shanks' family. 

Death fascinates and intrigues me.  It always has--a curiosity, not a morbidity.  The universal equalizer, not a single person on the planet is exempt.  We come into this world with nothing; we leave with nothing.

How is it that from one breath, one heartbeat to the next the very being, the essence of a person is removed, and all that is left is the house, the body?  While some may feel they can bring about their own death, they are only dealing with the physical.   No man is able to remove their own person.

I have no fear of death and, at this point in time, there is no fear of the process of dying either.  Neither do I have any pretty pictures of life after death.  One would think I would, given the many near-death experiences I've read about and my religious upbringing.  

What I do know is this:  The One who created me and delivered me into this world is going to usher me out.  My finite mind cannot begin to grasp what is next.  I know of His presence there and nothing more.    

Where there is birth there is also death, and it is my belief that physical death is not an end, but a beginning, the beginning of the rest of time, of life with God or without Him.  

My family and I will gather at a funeral service tomorrow.  The thought is always present at these occasions of  "Who's next?"  Only God knows.

This I do know:  Given the universal experience of death, what is truly important is that of being prepared to meet Him.  May He do that for each one of you.    


"Prepare to meet thy God."

"Everyone must die once, and after that be judged by God."  

"Oh, death, where is your victory?  Oh, grave, where is your sting?"  

       










    

"On Being Spiritually Alive"

spiritual:  of or pertaining to the spirit or soul; not material

physical:  having to do with the body, the material world

religious:  concerning religions; a system of faith and worship 

The look on her face was one of petrified fear, a frozen expression of sheer terror, that of the proverbial deer "caught in the headlights."  As I slammed on the brakes I have no doubt my own face was a mirror of hers.  An older woman on a bicycle, her balance affected, she had stopped immediately in front of my truck and dismounted.  Giving me one of those "if looks could kill" glares, she then got back on and rode on down the sidewalk, seething with anger. I saw her mouth an expletive, and I couldn't say I blamed her.

Accessing the street via an alley, vision had been blocked by a large climbing rose. Fortunately for the both of us I was at a virtual crawl as I moved forward onto the street. She hadn't seen me, and I hadn't seen her until we were on top of one another.  Even at my very slow rate of speed I was a split second away from knocking her down and, as she was wearing no helmet, it had the potential of being a calamitous situation. 

Pulling out onto the street I drove down a block and turned onto a side street, waiting for her to ride by.  As i rolled down my window, I shouted "I am soooo sorry."  The anger evaporated, and the two of us agreed "It's all good."

Heading on to my next job my being was filled with gratitude to my Heavenly Father for once again being a part of my everyday life.

There is physical.  And then there is spiritual.

We all know what it means to be physically alive.  What does it mean to be spiritually alive? And what difference does it make?  Does it matter?

Wearing certain kinds of clothing, covering one's head or entire body; stopping to pray 5 times a day; completing classes of doctrine; living a monastic life of celibacy; fasting; setting aside days of the week, month, or year as special holidays; eating or not eating specific foods; following rules--these are religion. One can be very religious and be spiritually dead.

We were created spiritual beings, with the purpose of having a friendship with our Creator. To be spiritually alive means one's spirit has been quickened, brought to life, and a connection is made with Him.  

As with the physical, mankind is incapable of making life happen.  Becoming spiritually alive is as simple as opening up one's innermost self and inviting God in.  He is life, He is light, and He is a gentleman in that He never goes where He isn't invited.

A spiritual life is not one of accomplishment, to be flaunted and waved around like a banner. It is a gift.

Living life with God is not idyllic, filled with air, fairy tales of the hereafter, balloons, and lullabies.  For me, that perception fell apart with the statement "God does not keep you from hard times.  He does walk you through them."  

And that is just one reason being spiritually alive makes a difference.  It matters.  

Physical is temporary; spiritual is eternal.  And that is another reason.

Living life with God, One who knows me, who loves me, who has my best interest at heart --or living it on my own, alone.  That is the most important reason of all.



    
"If there is a physical body, there is also a spiritual body." 
                   I Corinthians 15:44







    

"On a Gift From the Heart"

When it was delivered to me it was neatly folded, in a type of pillow case made of a blue chambray fabric, pinned closed with a safety pin along the open edge.  A small plastic bag secured to the case held a picture of several women displaying the gift along with a letter and a small booklet, a Gospel of John.  

Written to the recipient and signed by the ones who made it, the letter read:  "Dear Quilt of Honor Recipient.  'The Threadbearers' are a group of quilters that meet at Harbor Baptist Church in Winchester Bay, Oregon.  We want to thank you for your service to our country. May this quilt bring comfort and love.  Your service is appreciated.  May God richly bless you."  The emotion I experienced surprised me.  It was, after all, just a quilt, pieces of fabric sewn together to make a blanket.  But it was much more than that.  The love and the sincerity with which it was made and given was palpable, powerful, and real, a gift from the heart.  

Carefully removing it from its cloth wrapping, I unfolded it. Constructed with fabric of a patriotic theme, the craftsmanship was outstanding.  It was beautiful, quite simply.... beautiful. On the underside corner a handmade label was sewn, with the recipient's name and the name of the group stating " 'Quilt of Honor.' Thank you and God bless."    

It was my privilege to deliver this handmade quilt to a veteran, a long time friend since grade school, honoring and acknowledging his service to his country 50 years ago.  The bonus was that it was a surprise, an unexpected delivery of a gift, one given from the heart.

The Threadbearers originated in 2003 with one woman who had a vision and a desire. Now a group of 10-15 quilters, most of them retirees, they can be found on any given Monday morning in a church basement, designing and creating quilts to be given to the men and women in their local community who served in this country's military.  Many of these women feel it is their personal ministry, a way of expressing God's love and saying "thank you" to some who may have been forgotten.  Each quilt is unique, one-of-a-kind, as the intent is to make them as individual as each recipient is.    

These are the quiet ones among us, the humble, the ones who have no desire to make a name for themselves, to draw attention to themselves, or to even receive recognition, but to fulfill a mission, one they are passionate about, one they feel deeply about.

The recipients are often the quiet ones among us as well, at least when speaking about themselves and their service in the military.  Reticent, often reluctant to share, many of them carry a heavy burden, unseen by acquaintances, friends, and family.  

"War is hell."  Having served in Vietnam, the Persian Gulf, Iraq, Afghanistan, or other places, they left those countries behind at the end of their service when they returned home.  However, those countries and the experiences there did not leave them behind as they deal with physical, mental, and emotional damage incurred decades ago. They are the wounded of our nation.    

It is said that "Time heals all wounds."  For many veterans that is not an accurate statement. Deep scars remain and, while time has perhaps softened the agonizing pain, the memories remain, surfacing with reckless abandon.  In addition, in many circles the military is not viewed as a highly regarded calling.  For those who gave of themselves and their lives for their country the lack of respect and harsh judgment is a "hard pill to swallow," difficult to reconcile.  

In particular, Vietnam veterans returned back home to a seed bed of animosity.  The climate across the country was one of a resistance to that war and no mercy was shown to those who served, many being cursed, even spat upon for their service.  Returning from a hell, they were thrust back into an even worse kind of hell--rejection and betrayal by fellow Americans, some of them their own family members as well as their government, causing them to retreat within themselves and deal with their experiences in silence.

Unlike previous times of military engagements, these men and women were not given a "thank you," let alone being honored for the lives they left behind in that country.  A lifetime later, a Quilt of Honor gives acknowledgement and recognition in a personal, meaningful way.  

One Quilt of Honor recipient poignantly shared it this way:

"I never felt appreciated when I came home.  No one ever said 'Thank you for your service, and I'm glad you're home.'  Some vets felt betrayed by the Government, and it made the cold reception even worse.  We got so we kept our Vietnam service to ourselves.  It wasn't until we were involved in the Middle East that I had someone say 'Thanks for your service' to me.  It was in the Safeway parking lot, and he wasn't a veteran.  It was just a guy, which made it special.  It was an emotional experience.  That's the way receiving the quilt made me feel.  It was like a personal, special 'Thank you' just for me, from the ladies who sewed the quilt and from the person who made it happen for me."  

Upon receipt of the gift, the response and reaction of the recipient is often that of being overwhelmed.  It is difficult for them to comprehend the thoughtfulness, kindness, and generosity of complete strangers.  "Thank you just isn't enough," is a common comment.  One veteran placed his quilt on the back of the couch so he could look at it; others hang them on the wall, in a window in order to display them.  

Over the years, "The Threadbearers"  have delivered hundreds of quilts to our veterans, as many as 123 in a given year.  They are gifts.  No compensation, payment, or donation is requested.  These ladies have never had a "money-maker" to purchase materials and supplies, no raffle or offering plate.  And yet, 13 years later, they "happily sew away."

What is a gift from the heart?  How does it differ from other gifts?  A gift from the heart is not the object given but the origin of it.  It can be anything--an object purchased or hand-made, a gift of time or assistance.  Personal and priceless, no dollar figure can be placed upon it.  

Coming from the mind of God, beginning as a single seed of thought, the base of it is love, as He is love.  Given to one to fulfill, it has a life of its own, continuing to grow over time. These are not gifts which are forgotten, ending up in a discard or donation pile.  No other type of gift, regardless of its monetary value, has that potential or capability, that of growth. 

A gift from the heart is one which touches and affects not only the recipient, but the giver as well. These quilts are a perfect example, providing both physical and emotional comfort for the recipient while giving the ones who bestow the gift a deep sense of satisfaction and purpose.

When it comes time for a Quilt of Honor to be "given a home," as the gifting is called, a small group of women, the ones who have spent hours at the fabric store, the cutting table, and then at their sewing machines creating it, gather together and pray, asking that God will be honored, that He is given all gratitude and appreciation, and praying for the one who will receive it.

Following the lead and the example of their Heavenly Father as He freely gave and continues to give, these are "The Threadbearers," ordinary women with fabric, needle, and thread.   Affecting and having an impact on countless numbers of men and women, their families, and their friends, these Quilts of Honor are undeniably gifts of love, a gift from the heart.



"God so loved the world that He gave His one and only Son.  Anyone who believes in Him will not die, but have eternal life."  John 3:16