Sorry for lack of posts since last week. The mighty hunter has returned, obviously, with... wait for it...1/2 a duck! How exactly does a person shoot 1/2 a duck you ask? Well, it's like this: All together, the four of us shot four ducks-a hen shoveler, a drake bluebill, and two drake mallards. Two of the ducks were shot by Gerry Lancaster (they were on his end of the boat), while one was shot by Gerry's brother Jack (on his end of the boat). My friend Steve and I were fighting it out in the middle. I shot the one mallard I had a chance to shoot, though Gerry also shot, so we both claimed 1/2 of it. In the end, I wound up taking all of the ducks home, where they are now resting comfortably in my freezer, awaiting the day of duck a la orange, which is yet to come this winter.
It was not the most stellar day from a duck shooting perspective that I've ever experienced on the marsh. On the other hand, between the raindrops, I got to witness the morning flight, saw some ducks work to the call, watched sandhill cranes and geese flap by at a distance, ate grilled and buttered cinammon raisin bagels, followed by ham and eggs, and sucked down coffee with good men. We talked, we razzed each other, we stood in the rain and the wind and watched for circling birds coming to the call and the decoys. And it's these things, as much as the actual shooting, that make for a good duck hunt. And it's for them, as much as the other, that I love going and am looking forward to the next time.
Wednesday, October 28, 2009
Wednesday, October 21, 2009
Ducks, marshes, and old friends
I'm going to Iowa on Thursday night so that I can experience the joy of sitting in a camouflaged boat out on the marsh while the sun comes up with some old friends and waiting for the ducks. In the last few minutes before the dawn, we'll all be silently praying that shooting hours and duck flight closely coincide. I'll be hoping for teal screaming by, crusing low over the dekes, mallards coming in with their orange feet up, and maybe a shoveler or a gadwall just to liven things up.Of course, it's also possible that no ducks fly near or at all. That the marsh is quiet except for the sounds of eggs and bacon frying, coffee pouring out of thermoses and into cups held by cold fingers, and of friendly voices razzing each other about one thing or another. And that too is a good way to spend a morning. Since I haven't done either one in a couple years, I don't much care.
Fight! Fight!
When I was in high school back in the day, it always seemed that every student knew of a fight about 5 minutes before any responsible adults could intervene. This meant there was always time to witness the circling, the cussing, the few thrown punches of a fight between boys, or the rolling around the floor, hair-pulling, eye-gouging action of a girl fight, all without being late to class. Personally, I always found these things part of the entertainment provided free while I served out my 12 year public school sentence.
Now that I am a grown man, my prospects for viewing really good hand-to-hand combat have shifted to other venues like Sunday night football and the occasional household spat between my children. Oh, and occasionally within the Church, as part of my pastoral calling, like my calling as a father, has involved maturing beyond being a side-picking spectator and becoming the neutral, responsible adult.
Not that there is any hair-pulling or punches thrown in church, of course, though that would certainly be cleaner. Church fights take the form of offense deliberately (and sometimes accidentally) given which turn into grudges lovingly nursed, negative votes cast, and angry words spoken and written. A disagreement hardens into a fractured relationship, which grows into a faction as sides are chosen, which then metastasizes into a split, a new church, a new denomination, or even "a new way of doing church" (Rob Bell, call your office!).
All this is hardly new, as even people promising "new ways of doing church" have a long pedigree. Because no matter what happens when a new church starts (for whatever reason), eventually the sinners make it through the filters and take up residence there, just like they were present in the old place. And yet, hope springs eternal for some way of "doing church" in which all the sinners will somehow always get along and never have to swallow their pride, confess their sins to one another, and be reconciled. We think, naively, "Well, if we just had more people like me, then things would be perfect." Which are the thoughts of prideful fools. The only way the Church becomes the Church in the way it should be is as it grows to be more like Jesus. And the only way that happens is if we learn to humble ourselves and "agree with each other in the Lord" (Phil. 4:2).
Now that I am a grown man, my prospects for viewing really good hand-to-hand combat have shifted to other venues like Sunday night football and the occasional household spat between my children. Oh, and occasionally within the Church, as part of my pastoral calling, like my calling as a father, has involved maturing beyond being a side-picking spectator and becoming the neutral, responsible adult.
Not that there is any hair-pulling or punches thrown in church, of course, though that would certainly be cleaner. Church fights take the form of offense deliberately (and sometimes accidentally) given which turn into grudges lovingly nursed, negative votes cast, and angry words spoken and written. A disagreement hardens into a fractured relationship, which grows into a faction as sides are chosen, which then metastasizes into a split, a new church, a new denomination, or even "a new way of doing church" (Rob Bell, call your office!).
All this is hardly new, as even people promising "new ways of doing church" have a long pedigree. Because no matter what happens when a new church starts (for whatever reason), eventually the sinners make it through the filters and take up residence there, just like they were present in the old place. And yet, hope springs eternal for some way of "doing church" in which all the sinners will somehow always get along and never have to swallow their pride, confess their sins to one another, and be reconciled. We think, naively, "Well, if we just had more people like me, then things would be perfect." Which are the thoughts of prideful fools. The only way the Church becomes the Church in the way it should be is as it grows to be more like Jesus. And the only way that happens is if we learn to humble ourselves and "agree with each other in the Lord" (Phil. 4:2).
Thursday, October 15, 2009
Losing a heavyweight...
I first met Wally Cold when he came to hear me preach back when I was the Pastor of Evangelism and Community Groups at Faith Bible Church. He was part of the Chilli Bible search committee, and he had to come incognito, since I hadn't yet told the church I was looking for another position. After the service was over, Karen and I joined him and the other members of the team at Chili's for a long lunch. I liked them all instantly, but I felt the deepest connection with Wally. He struck me as a wise man who had come to his wisdom the hard way, but who nevertheless had a strong love for Christ and His Word.
For the next several months, I had many other opportunities to speak with him, both in interview contexts as well as later, after I had been offered and accepted the call to CBC. We talked about the church and the hopes and dreams of its people. We talked about fishing. We talked about friends of his that he was hoping I could influence toward Christ. We talked about a lot of the mundane details involved in moving a pastor from one church to another.
In all this talking, we built a friendship. We always talked about going fishing together, catching bass out at some private pond. We never made that trip, but he did take my sons and I for a ride in his bass boat out on Lake Thunderbird, even letting the boys drive sitting on his lap. He always had a kind word and a firm handshake for me each Sunday and always sought to encourage me in my ministry. When criticism came my way, he was quick to gently point out the truth and help me to reject anything that was false. He believed in me, loved me like a brother, and held me up in prayer. Who could ask for more than that?
Two months ago, Wally got cancer. Or more accurately, the doctors discovered cancer after he had been struggling with illness for months. Lately, he had asked me to send him copies of the sermons in the week after I gave them. He and Clarice couldn't come to the services anymore with his health failing, but they would get the sermon and listen to them on Sunday mornings so they could feel like they were worshiping with us. Then he would send me a long email offering critique and encouragement. He worried that I would get puffed up with too many compliments, but he loved me and God's Word, so the criticisms were small and few while the compliments overflowed.
This week, after his 2nd round of chemo, his health failed. He was in and out of consciousness, but I was able to tell him that I loved him and hear "I love you too." When I told him that he would have to tell me what the City looks like, he told me I already knew (it's there in the Scriptures!). Now he knows far better than I do. This good and godly man turned his final lap today. He passed through the door and into the presence of the Savior this afternoon at 1:05 p.m. Rest in peace, my friend.
For the next several months, I had many other opportunities to speak with him, both in interview contexts as well as later, after I had been offered and accepted the call to CBC. We talked about the church and the hopes and dreams of its people. We talked about fishing. We talked about friends of his that he was hoping I could influence toward Christ. We talked about a lot of the mundane details involved in moving a pastor from one church to another.
In all this talking, we built a friendship. We always talked about going fishing together, catching bass out at some private pond. We never made that trip, but he did take my sons and I for a ride in his bass boat out on Lake Thunderbird, even letting the boys drive sitting on his lap. He always had a kind word and a firm handshake for me each Sunday and always sought to encourage me in my ministry. When criticism came my way, he was quick to gently point out the truth and help me to reject anything that was false. He believed in me, loved me like a brother, and held me up in prayer. Who could ask for more than that?
Two months ago, Wally got cancer. Or more accurately, the doctors discovered cancer after he had been struggling with illness for months. Lately, he had asked me to send him copies of the sermons in the week after I gave them. He and Clarice couldn't come to the services anymore with his health failing, but they would get the sermon and listen to them on Sunday mornings so they could feel like they were worshiping with us. Then he would send me a long email offering critique and encouragement. He worried that I would get puffed up with too many compliments, but he loved me and God's Word, so the criticisms were small and few while the compliments overflowed.
This week, after his 2nd round of chemo, his health failed. He was in and out of consciousness, but I was able to tell him that I loved him and hear "I love you too." When I told him that he would have to tell me what the City looks like, he told me I already knew (it's there in the Scriptures!). Now he knows far better than I do. This good and godly man turned his final lap today. He passed through the door and into the presence of the Savior this afternoon at 1:05 p.m. Rest in peace, my friend.
Tuesday, October 13, 2009
Prayers for Padang
Here in the US, with our 24-hour media, we hear about disasters every day. And then the news cycle turns, and we forget. But look at this photo. These are real people who are still living in a real disaster area. They need help. More than that, they need Jesus. This area has been one of most hardened and resistant to the gospel in all of Indonesia. Which, considering that it's the world's largest Muslim nation, is really saying something.My prayer is that this tragedy will crack the hardened shell of Gospel rejection and that there would be a fresh openness to the life-giving words of the Scriptures. Will you join me in continuing to pray for Padang?
Monday, October 12, 2009
Binge and Purge
No, I'm not bulimic. It just feels that way with reference to our house. We buy things and accumulate junk until we get to a point where the junk seems overwhelming. Then we pitch it out with extreme prejudice, wondering where it all came from.
I spent this morning cleaning with Karen while the kids play with some friends. That keeps them nicely distracted while we purge the trash, accumulated ancient school papers, broken and/or unplayed with toys, and pages that have been well colored. We threw out three 33-gallon garbage sacks of this stuff this morning and we're well on our way to filling a fourth. And that's just from downstairs!
Where did all this stuff come from? Who knows, but it feels cleansing to pitch it. I can already feel a sense of calm descending on my soul...
I spent this morning cleaning with Karen while the kids play with some friends. That keeps them nicely distracted while we purge the trash, accumulated ancient school papers, broken and/or unplayed with toys, and pages that have been well colored. We threw out three 33-gallon garbage sacks of this stuff this morning and we're well on our way to filling a fourth. And that's just from downstairs!
Where did all this stuff come from? Who knows, but it feels cleansing to pitch it. I can already feel a sense of calm descending on my soul...
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