After experiencing a call to the ministry, I charged in “full steam ahead.” I served a rural congregation a licensed minister during my final year of undergraduate school. In theological seminary, I enrolled in a combined masters and doctoral program in seminary that required two internships plus Clinical Pastoral Education in addition to the academic work associated with such degrees. Through the process of becoming licensed and then becoming a student in care, I worked with what was then called the Committee on Church and Ministry to maintain my connection with the institutional church. I was examined by the committee both for licensure and for ordination as well as an ecclesiastical council before the Association.

As a result, I have carried with me a strong sense of professionalism and proper preparation and equipping for ministers. I know that the educational requirements of other denominations differ from ours. I have met many pastors who do not have an undergraduate degree who believe that one or two years of unaccredited Bible college is sufficient preparation for ministry.

Often those who have not gone through rigorous preparation lack proper training in how to work with others in professional settings. This is often evident in the hospital, where some of my colleagues, sadly, don’t understand the procedures and protocols of a modern medical facility and make inaccurate assumptions about the role of pastors in the care team. Sometimes they create an image of pastors that makes it difficult for others of us to operate in that setting because they have failed to maintain proper professional relationships, failed to keep confidentiality, and failed to observe hospital protocols.

There are plenty of things in life that require hard work and commitment in order to achieve the competence required. This is true of the ministry as well. What we do often appears to be easy and people sometimes assume that it is a job that anybody can do.

As a result of all of this, I have worked throughout my career to maintain the highest levels of academic integrity and professional qualification. I am quick to refer when I am asked to operate in an area where I lack the experience or training and I maintain a rigorous discipline of reading and continuing education. I’m not a fan of meetings and conferences, but I attend several each year to make sure that I have received appropriate training for the vocation to which I am called.

There is a part of me, however, that is becoming a bit cynical. It may be a product of my aging and having invested quite a few years in ministry. I see things differently than I did when I was freshly ordained and my degrees were new. There are many conferences that I attend where the trainers seem to know less about their subject than I, and it isn’t rare for me to be disappointed at a general lack of knowledge of the relevant literature among my colleagues. I belong to one group that is all clergy with master’s degrees where some of my colleagues complain about the amount of reading required. This frustrates me. I don’t think there is a substitute for reading as an academic discipline. If one has a specific disability there are ways around having to read quietly, but the material needs to be covered if we are to maintain our base of knowledge, skills and training.

I am well aware that it is not academic training that makes a minister. I am equally aware that we in our corner of the Church of Jesus Christ tend to spend a lot of time in our heads, thinking about faith and theology. Often we are less capable at artistic expression and our sermons lack emotional impact. I know that others look at me with legitimate criticism.

On the other hand, I have taken multiple graduate level courses in storytelling, maintain a professional membership in the Fellowship of Biblical Storytellers and take the oral traditions of the church seriously. Unlike some of my colleagues who lecture to their congregations each week, I have made a study of the difference between oral and written language and have invested a lot of time in practicing my skills as an oral presenter.

My problem, I am well aware, is that I can be overly judgmental of my colleagues. What I see as high standards is viewed by some as the gripes of a cranky old man. What I see as professionalism is viewed by others as a gatekeeper attitude focused on keeping others out of the profession. Like most criticism, there is probably truth in their opinion.

I just registered for another conference. It is part of the annual continuing education that goes with professional membership in the International Conference of Police Chaplains. It is a credential that I maintain as a part of my dedication to professional practice. And I confess that the workshops for which I have registered don’t excite me. They sound like workshops that I have attended before. I suspect that some of the trainers have not invested as much energy in learning their field as I have. I realize that I will have to work to remain engaged and pay attention for the things that I am able to learn.

For the first time in my professional career I am beginning to recognize signs that one day it will be time for me to step aside and allow younger leadership to emerge. The honest enthusiasm of youth has much to offer – and is often more reasonable than the cynicism of an old man. And the profession doesn’t need me to act as a gatekeeper. The Holy Spirit has provided the leadership that the church has needed in the past and will continue to do so for generations to come.

So I’ll be there. I’ll try to participate fully. I’ll try not to be too cynical. I’m sure that there are many things that I can still learn. And I’ll pray that perhaps I can teach some of my younger colleagues by example of submitting to the process.

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It is nearly the end of September - time for autumn colors and cooler weather. Yesterday turned out to be a very pleasant day, but much cooler than last week and just enough mist in the air to remind us that autumn has arrived. It is supposed to warm up today and we’ll see highs in the upper seventies before the rain sets in at the end of the week. The seasons, however, are changing. As I paddled yesterday, I wore a light jacket, but it wasn’t cold enough to require gloves. There will be many more days of paddling before the ice takes over the lake.

I’m a fan of all four seasons, and autumn has its wondrous glories. It is a season of exhilarating beauty. The yellows, golds, oranges and reds of the trees in the canyons and valleys contrast with the deep green of the pine and spruce. The grass is starting to become dormant, but there are still plenty of patches of lush green. The garden is still producing good food, but there is less to harvest. The sunflowers are turning from their brilliant display of color to the world’s best bird feeders.

There is more to this season. It is a time of decline in some ways. Some plants will die back to the earth. In a few weeks I’ll till the garden back to black dirt. The browns will take over and, in this country, lie exposed for quite a while before being covered with snow. Of course, we have been known to have early blizzards and part of the joy of living here is that the weather is able to surprise. Still, it is impossible to escape that there is a bit of dying going on. We won’t have all of the bright blossoming flowers until next spring and summer.

It is a necessary part of the cycle of life. Seeds need to fall to the ground and get buried in order to sprout next year. Leaves need to be composted to provide the nutrients that give us next spring’s green. Decay is necessary for life to continue.

But yesterday was one of those delicious days suspended between summer and autumn. It was very comfortable out doors most of the day, yet there were a few small showers to refresh the earth. And the mists hung in the hills giving them a mystery that is inviting as long as the temperatures remain warm enough for comfortable outdoor activity, which was the case yesterday. It felt as if we were riding the edge of the seasons.

Maybe I’m more sensitive to the changes because I feel some days as if I am riding on the edge of seasons. When I attend meetings such as the installation of our new conference minister last Saturday, I am aware that I am now among the elders of the conference. There are plenty of new faces and younger ministers serving our congregations. I’m no longer the one up front making the “pitch” for the latest youth event or playing my guitar for the camp songs.

Like the leaves falling to the ground, there are things in my life that need to fall away as the years go by. Some of the good work that I did in my earlier years is no longer relevant. Some of the projects that consumed my energies are completed and it is time to start new projects. Some of the relationships that were worthy of investment have disintegrated as people have moved to new places. Others have come to the end of their live’s journeys. Some times when I think about my life and work it seems as if the biggest part is now behind me. My passion for my work remains, but there are times when the sense of purpose and meaning is a bit more distant.

These bits of natural decay that come with the autumn of life, however, are also essential to the new growth that will emerge. There comes a time when it is essential for some of us to step aside and make room for the new leadership that is coming. It is right not to need to be center stage as often and to sit with other elders lending our support to new leaders.

One of the advantages of having lived a few years and weathered a few seasons is that I now am confident that possibility gets planted in us even in the most difficult of times. The days and weeks and years of grief give way to a deeper understanding and acceptance of our own mortality. Turning aside from one job pushes one to uncover true vocation. When a particular path to meaning is closed, new ways appear.

It is a basic truth of our faith, but one that we sometimes ignore: New life is always hidden in dying. Resurrection isn’t some ancient story, but a reality built into the design of the universe. And this truth is very important as we become more and more honest about our own deaths. When we are able to turn aside from the fear of dying, we discover a grace and beauty that we had not previously observed.

Perhaps standing on the edge between summer and autumn gives us a perspective that will provide meaning as we plug deeper into autumn and winter. I’m trying to remember what it feels like to be a bit too warm, with the sweat beading on my forehead. I’m trying to recall how I am sometimes impatient with having to mow the lawn so often. These will have to be stored in memory when the snows come and I am shoveling and the grass is covered with white. Being on the edge between the summer and autumn of my life gives me enough experience with the seasons to know that spring and summer will come again. Decay and beauty, darkness and light, death and life are not opposites. They are all parts of a larger and deeper meaning.

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I awoke this morning to the sound of rain outside my window. My first thought was a twinge of sadness, because I had the kayak loaded up and was ready to go paddling. I don’t mind paddling in the rain, but I stay off of the lakes when there is lightning in the area and I could hear the distant rumble of thunder as I lay in bed for a few minutes, clearing my head. It wasn't the loud crack of nearby lightning, but rather the low rumbling of thunder echoing off of the distant hills. A quick look at the weather radar indicates that I’ll probably be able to go paddling. There isn’t a lot of moisture in the area. The forecast calls for less than .1 inch of rain in the next six hours. We might get more over the next 24, but the total will probably be less than a half inch. I’m pretty sure I can paddle in a little while.

Our hills need the rain. It isn’t right to complain about the rain. I could almost feel the relief of the dry grass in the lawn as the water fell on its surface. It was a gentle rain - just the right sound for waking up in the morning.

The clouds have been dancing around our area for a couple of days. After a clear night on Saturday with which to view the supermoon, we couldn’t see the moon at all at moonrise last night. We got a break about an hour later, when it was about 1/4 to 1/3 eclipsed. I took a few pictures, but knew that I was going to miss the spectacular full eclipse and the red color that the moon shows in such circumstances.

Somehow, sitting on the deck last night, peering at the moon through the camera, I remembered a couple of teachers from long ago. In my second year of seminary I had the opportunity to take a class in photography that was co-taught by one of my favorite teachers and Archie Lieberman the then-famous Life magazine photographer. The two had become friends and every couple of years taught a class that was part theology, part photography, and a whole lot of learning to see other people and the world in which we live.

Archie wasn’t impressed by fancy cameras. He had quality equipment and did most of his work with F-series Nikons that were the most common cameras of professional photojournalists at that time. “A camera is only a tool - just a box with a hole and a shutter,” he would say. “It takes a human mind with powers of observation to make a photograph. Archie had patience for the image to come. One of his books, Farm Boy, contains images from following the same farm family for 25 years. After that book, he continued to follow and photograph that family until the end of his life. When we would go on photo trips, Archie could have remarkable patience for a single frame. He would envision the scene, scope it out through the viewfinder, and think about a dozen details: background, light angle, focus, depth of field, framing, and choice of lens. We didn’t have zoom lenses in those days. We chose a focal length and sometimes spent the entire day with a single lens. At most we had four lenses in our camera bags, and most seminary students had fewer. 50mm was the most typical lens. I was fortunate to have a good Nikkor 105mm lenses that was great for portraits and reasonable for animals.

These days we have zoom lenses with incredible ranges. I often use a single lens for a whole day’s photography. A couple of lenses are all I need for almost every situation. I don’t find myself changing lenses very often.

What I was thinking last night, however, was about how long it has taken me to develop patience. Waiting for the clouds to part, I squeezed of a dozen frames last night in order to get two photographs that might be usable. When I was taking photography, there is no way that I could have spent that much time and taken that few frames. I had a capacity to burn through a lot of film. Now that I work exclusively with digital cameras, I actually find myself taking fewer photographs. The number of photos worth keeping seems to be fairly constant. Perhaps I am learning to see my pictures before I press the shutter button. It is a skill that Archie definitely had and one that is hard to teach to twenty-somethings, which is what I was in those days.

The other teacher, Ross, was in his mid-seventies when I met him - at least a decade older than I am today. It is important for me to remember him well if for no other reason than that I don’t have a lot of models about life and work for this stage in my life. Most of my teachers and mentors were focused on retirement at this point. Ross served full time as a graduate school educator until his late seventies. When, at 74, the time came for him to leave our school, he sought and obtained a position at another graduate theological seminary and continued to teach for several years.

If Archie struggled to teach me patience, Ross struggled to teach me persistence. Both of the lessons took several decades to be processed. Good teachers do that. They make an impact that continues to teach as the student continues to learn. Ross an Archie both had the ability to plant seeds that take decades to come into fruition.

Teaching may be like the rain. It isn’t how much rain falls in a minute that makes the difference, but rather how much falls in a year. The trees are willing to wait for the rain. Sometimes they have to wait for months. But every drop matters to the trees. They do their best to develop strong roots that take advantage of all the moisture the soil can hold. The best teachers don’t try to deliver all of the information all at once, but rather offer the information that can be used along with information that can be treasured and pondered until its time.

How fortunate I have been to have had such marvelous teachers.

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I went out last night and took a few pictures of the moon. I wanted to test my lens choice and bracket a few exposures to make sure that I could make a clear image. Tonight there will be a total lunar eclipse. That in combination with what is called a “supermoon” because of the distance between the moon and earth in its orbit and the phenomenon of the golden harvest moon should make for a spectacular evening of watching the heavens. It is also the fourth and final leg of a “lunar tetrad,” when four total eclipses occur six months apart. It is a relatively rare occurrence in the life of those who are fascinated by looking at the sky.

The forecast is “iffy.” The day is supposed to be partly cloudy with the possibility of rain showers beginning around 8 pm. Moonrise is 6:35, so we may get some good glimpses between the clouds. I was hoping for a totally clear sky, or one with low clouds like last night, but the weather is a factor that we can’t control and so we’ll take what we get.

The relatively recent divide between science and religion, arising in the late 19th and early 20th century has created a public perception that people of faith are somehow opposed to science. Some even claim that you have to deny scientific method and reject major scientific theories in order to life a life of faith.

That is certainly not my perspective. And it is not the long-term perspective of the church. Over the millennia the church has often been at the forefront of promoting scientific exploration and discovery.

Did you know that the Vatican maintains and observatory dedicated to furthering astronomical discoveries? In fact, Pope Francis just appointed a new director of the Vatican Observatory. The retiring director, George Coyne, is author of many books including “Wayfarers in the Cosmos: The Human Quest for meaning.” The new director, Guy Consolmagno was previously curator of meteorites for the vatican observatory. His books include “Brother Astronomer: Adventures of a Vatican Scientist and Would You Baptize an Extraterrestrial?: and Other Questions from the Astronomers' In-box at the Vatican Observatory.”

Science and religion are not oppositional fields of human endeavor. Faith does not prevent one from engaging in serious scientific exploration and discovery. And there is nothing in scientific method that threatens religious faith. The dichotomy painted by a few extremists in the fundamentalist wing of the church is false. Science and religion go hand in hand. Discovery of more about this incredible universe in which we live expands our understanding of God.

As Pope Francis concludes his first visit to the United States with what might well be characterized as a rock star reception, people of faith in many different corners of the church have been looking on with excitement and joy. The visit has had some challenging words and some deep conversations about faith. But it has also had moments of sheer joy and celebration, friendship and laughter. We are delighted by a world religious leader with such an expansive collection of interests, who seems to be open to conversation on any topic and sees no place where his faith cannot take him. For Pope Francis there is no division of sacred and secular. He takes Psalm 24 to heart: “The earth is the Lord’s and the fullness thereof, the world and those who dwell therein.” There is nothing in this world that doesn’t reflect that goodness of God. Even in the midst of poverty or pain or grief or sadness, God is present. Even when we humans show our worst in crime and victimization, God stands with the victims bringing hope and new possibility.

I am not a Roman Catholic. There are many points of theological disagreement that make me different from the leaders in the Roman church. But the faith we share is the same. The Christ who is at the center of that faith is the same. Despite real differences, we have more in common than the details of those differences.

I like to think that amidst the busyness of his schedule, the Pope will find time this evening to gaze at the sky and see the brightness of the moon and the delightful colors it displays as the shadow of the earth passes across its face. I like to think that the experience of such beauty and the vastness of the universe is one we share. I like to think that we both delight in God’s creation. All of the evidence I can see makes me believe that this is true.

Much of our lives are invested in the ordinary. We have jobs to do, we have families to support, we have friendships to maintain. We often repeat actions that we have done before. The windows we wash today will be dirty again soon. The process will be repeated. The route I take to church today is the route that I’ve been taking for two decades. The process will be repeated. The scripture upon which my sermon is based was read three years ago and will be read three years from now. The process will be repeated.

But life is not about repetition only. Into the routines and ordinariness of our lives burst surprises and events that are unusual. The fourth lunar eclipse in a season of supermoon is a unique experience. We know it is coming, but we don’t yet know whether or not we will be able to see it. The universe is filled with surprises and opportunities to see something that we’ve never seen before. The surprises bring joy and excitement to our lives.

I hope you will join me in looking up tonight as the sun begins to set. We may be watching clouds and we may be watching the moon. Whatever we see, it seems likely that it will be something that we have never before seen.

Our discoveries are certain to strengthen, not weaken, our faith.

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Today we’ll drive to Pierre for the installation of our new conference minister. The celebration should be a memorable event, with a preacher who is a well-known church leader. We’ve heard her speak on several occasions and have been inspired by her ministry and leadership in the past. It is fun to get together with other ministers and an installation involves a bit of pomp and ceremony with a procession of robed clergy that is kind of fun from time to time.

The installation of a conference minister is a relatively rare event. This will be only the second installation in South Dakota in the 20 years that I have served in this conference and the first was during my first year as a pastor here. We’ve had other conference ministers, but they have been acting or interim and have not been installed. Hopefully this will be the beginning of a long-term relationship.

Conferences, however, are in transition and it is a bit difficult to know what the future holds. In most mainline denominations midlevel judicatories are in decline. When I began my career as a pastor, the South Dakota Conference had three conference ministers and maintained three offices across the state. Now we struggle to keep one conference minister and are exploring ways to share staff with other conferences. Part of this decline has to do with the decline in membership of churches. Across the United States fewer people are members of churches and those who belong tend to participate at a lower level than was the case a few decades ago. The fastest growing religion in America today is “no religious preference.”

Part of the decline in conferences has to do with the impact of technology in our lives and changes in the way we develop relationships. There was a time when physical distance was a huge factor. Face-to-face contact was deemed essential. Conference ministers had to get in their cars and drive hundreds of thousands of miles to be physically present in churches. They were the connection between local congregations and the church’s national setting. Today we can video chat easily. Meetings can be held with conference calls or computer-mediated video conferencing. And we don’t need intermediaries between us and the church’s national setting. We can go online and be in direct contact with the resources of the national churches without the need for a go-between. Furthermore, while the church’s conference and national settings were once the sources of innovation, programming and resources, most local congregations have multiple sources of these things. As conferences have cut back, we have become more self-reliant on the local level.

In terms of program and resources, conferences are becoming largely irrelevant to the live of local congregations.

Religion, however, is not about numbers and statistics and counting people is not an accurate measure of faith nor is it an appropriate place to look for hope for those who place their trust in God.

There was a time, earlier in my career, when I thought that I would be a conference minister. When we served in North Dakota, I was a member of a search committee for a new conference minister. Over the years I have served in the conference and national settings of the church in many different roles. I understand the dynamics of conference ministry quite well and appreciate the work that connects us as individual congregations. When I reached mid-career, I was selected to participate in a program of developing conference ministers and identified as a potential candidate for conference positions.

Looking back, I am grateful that a call to conference ministry did not exist for me and that my career didn’t take that particular turn. The joys of preaching to the same congregation for a long period of time, serving people through a variety of life settings and situations, watching families grow, and witnessing the coming and going of many people is not to be taken lightly. I have baptized the children of couples at whose marriages I officiated. I have celebrated the confirmations of children whose baptism I celebrated. There are families in our congregation for whom I’ve led funerals, baptisms, confirmations, weddings and other significant celebrations for three generations. The relationships that are built in long-term ministry are deep and meaningful.

I know that I have been much better suited to the path my life has taken than I would have been to an office-based administrative minister. Years ago when I would hear about conference ministry as a specialty, I used to balk. I have been active in conferences all of my life. I know who does the work of the conference and, in general, it is not the conference minister. Local church pastors and lay persons serve on the committees and do the work of the conference. The conference minister’s roll is partly ceremonial - the officiant at certain events - and partly coordinating. And a conference minister goes from church to church, rarely speaking to the same congregation more than once a year and in many cases less often than that.

Tomorrow I will preach a sermon on Esther to our congregation. The book of Ester appears in our lectionary only once every three years. Many pastors never get to preach a second sermon on Esther in a single congregation. This will be my seventh in this congregation. Of course the congregation is dynamic and there aren’t too many people who have been present for all seven sermons. Still, the joy of returning to the same scripture with some of the same people is significant. We can reach for depth that isn’t possible in a “hit-ant-run” style of ministry.

I know that I am best suited for long-term relationships and am grateful that my ministry has taken the shape of being able to explore the precious relationship of pastor and congregation as central to our life of faith.

So today, as we worship, I’ll offer a somewhat selfish prayer, thanking God that it is not me who is being installed to this challenging and difficult ministry. My I show my faith by supporting our new minister.

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As was the case with our children, our grandchildren have books read to them every evening. The benefits of reading to children have been well documented and there are many major studies that show how good it is for children to have books read to them. Most of the studies fail to mention the benefit of reading to children for adults. Parents and grandparents have known for generations that reading to children is not only a pleasant experience. It is also an opportunity for adults to learn and grow. In our family, we have the added benefit of generous children who allow us to read to our grandchildren most evenings when we are visiting and regularly via Skype when we are apart.

I do a lot of reading. I belong to a book club and a weekly Bible study. I keep up with advances in theological education. I enjoy biographies and fiction and poetry. My library surrounds me with books and my office is filled with them as well. But there was a time after our children left home before grandchildren entered our lives when I was away from the classics like “Cat in the Hat” and “Go Dog, Go!” It is good to be back to reading those books again.

No matter how long or difficult your day has been, I challenge anyone to try to read “Fox in Sox” with a straight face. If you can do it, you are simply reading too slowly. Go back, speed up, and you’ll be actually rolling on the floor laughing instead of sending ROFL texts.

What book could be more complete and fun than “Go Dog, Go!”? It has everything: chase scenes (Dogs in cars, dogs going fast!), romance (Do you like my hat?), danger (Will the dogs stop in time to save the little bird?), suspense (Where are all those dogs going?) and 24-hour adventure (Now it is night, it is time for sleep.) It is all capped with a surprise ending. I won’t ruin the surprise for you if you haven’t read it.

Our grandson turned for last February and by this summer he was ready for chapter books. He doesn’t read himself, though there are several books including “One fish, two fish, red fish, blue fish” that he has memorized sufficiently to say the right words on the right pages. But he loves stories. So this summer has opened him up to “The Wizard of Oz,” “James and the Giant Peach,” and a collection of little monkey tales that was a book read to his grandmother when she was young.

As I have previously mentioned, the benefits of these books to his parents and grandparents is obvious. We are all better people, more capable in our jobs, more concerned about others, and in a better humor because we have been given the gift of reading to him.

I know that Shel Silverstein’s stories and poetry are just around the corner for us and I’m excited at the reading that we will soon be doing.

It will probably be a couple of years before our grandson is old enough for Michael Ende’s “Momo,” but I already can’t wait to read that wondrous adventure to him. In the book there are men in gray who come to the community and convince unsuspecting characters to save time. The problem with saving time, however, is that the more you save the less you have. Even with the promise of compound interest, decreasing the amount of time wasted results in the individual having less time. You don’t have to do the math of estimating the number of seconds left in your life to realize the truth of this observation.

Being efficient and saving time often only leads to more busy-ness and less time to enjoy relationships with others and observe the beauty of this world. What is often called “wasting” time is actually engaging in creative thinking and problem solving.

In this multi-tasking, 24/7 world, we often fail to give ourselves the gift of time. We convince ourselves that we have to remain in motion all the time and if there is any pause in the action out come the smart phones and we are either texting, checking our e-mail or taking photographs and sending them to friends who are rapidly becoming people that we don’t have time for face-to-face contact and have relegated to Facebook and Instagram. I get a couple of “friend” requests each week from people that I have never met. How can I possibly know if they are friends? And if I responded to every comment that flashes by on my Facebook timeline, I would never have time for conversation with the folks who contribute so much meaning to my life.

Unlike the story by Ende, we don’t have a conspiracy of strange men in gray who smoke small cigars and come around to convince us that we need to get serious about saving time and that we don’t have time to waste with sleeping, eating, caring for relatives or visiting the sick. We have adopted lifestyles which fill our days with driving to and from activities and events. We have filled our schedules with meetings and appointments. We have convinced ourselves that we don’t have time to wait in line or talk to the folks near us. In the story, this is something that is done to unsuspecting people. In real life it is something that we are doing to ourselves.

I now know that there are more books I’d love to read than there is time remaining in my life. In a strange way that fact is comforting. I know I’ll never run out of things to read. I’m learning to read a wide diversity of different kinds of books and expand my learning beyond a narrow circle of interests. I take more time for poetry these days and read more autobiographies and essays than before.

In the midst of all of this, I am resolved to always make time for reading to children and to be the grandpa who says, “Yes!” when I hear “Read it again! Read it again!”

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Our lives have certain rhythms. Circadian rhythms are physical, mental and behavioral changes that follow a roughly 24-hour cycle. We humans aren’t the only ones who experience rhythms. Most living things, including plants, animals, and even microbial organisms have circadian rhythms. One of the big factors in determining rhythms is light and darkness. The study of these rhythms is a scientific speciality called chronobiology.

Scientists have devoted years of study the differences between people who are more naturally inclined to stay up late and those who are more naturally inclined to get up early. It is common to call those who find themselves most alert and productive at night “owls” and those who are most alert and productive in the morning, “larks.” By those distinctions, I am a lark - at least most of the time.

It is interesting to me, however, that there are events that disrupt my normal sense of rhythm. Of course there are the major events. The birth of a child changes everything and for parents it means a radical readjustment of sleep schedules. Most parents eventually learn to take advantage of whatever opportunities they have for sleep, napping when the child naps, catching up on sleep when someone else is providing care for the child, doing whatever is necessary to survive in this new set of circumstances and conditions. Grief is another major event that frequently disrupts sleep patterns. Grieving people often find that they are unable to sleep at night when the rest of the world is sleeping. They may go several days without sleep and then sleep excessively in order to catch up.

Sleep disruption is one of the symptoms of depression and psychologists often ask questions about sleep patterns in working towards an accurate diagnosis and effective treatment from people who are suffering from psychological illnesses.

As I age, however, I have noticed that small changes can also affect my sleep patterns. I used to travel more for my work. In those days, I could adjust to two time zones in a day without much effort. Traveling east, I would be weary from travel and simply go to bed at the new time and wake on my usual schedule. Traveling west I would just “tough it out” for one long day, sleep well, and be adjusted to the new time zone by the second day. These days I travel less, and I have discovered that even one time zone can take me up to a couple of days to make the transition. You wouldn’t think a single hour would be that big of a deal, but I am becoming more and more a product of ritual and habit as I age. I guess that is normal. We used to refer to certain aging persons as “set in their ways.” I don’t relish the thought of becoming set in my ways and hope that I can maintain more flexibility than some as I grow older. Perhaps traveling more instead of less would help.

At any rate, I am having trouble finding my rhythm after a simple vacation trip. We traveled east one time zone, which is no big deal: lose an hour driving out, gain an hour coming home. For some reason, however, I had a terrible time adjusting. During our vacation, I was waking in the middle of the night. I always turn off my alarm clock on vacation, so I would become fearful of oversleeping. As a result I would writ my blog when I woke in the middle of the night, waking more fully than normal. Then I’d crawl back into bed and sleep. For the most part this worked well for me. I woke when I needed to and had plenty of energy for the days.

Coming home, I attempted to get right back into the rhythm of things, rising at my normal time, with the alarm clock, writing my blog and getting on with my day. It was a bit of a struggle getting up the first morning, but then things went well. The second night, however, I had a difficult time sleeping and found myself getting up multiple times in the night. I did not, however, go to work on the blog. Instead I read a few pages and returned to bed, tossing and turning until the alarm went off and I got up and went on with my day.

Last night was the third night. It had been a long day, arriving in the office early, staying for choir rehearsal and then responding to an emergency at the hospital. I was a bit wound up from the emergency and it took me a while to get ready for sleep so I went to bed a bit later than usual. Again I woke in the night, got up and read for a while and then went back to sleep.

And wow! Did I ever sleep! I had neglected to plug my phone into its charger the night before and it had been overused with the evening emergency so its battery was dead and my alarm didn’t go off. I finally awoke almost two hours late - with a blog to write and an 8 a.m. meeting. So now I’m scrambling and rushing about to play catch up.

I know that I’ll find my rhythm again soon, but the disruption is a bit upsetting. I don’t have time for this nonsense.

I know that sleep disruption is a symptom of a wide variety of conditions and I know that lack of sleep contributes to many illnesses including obesity (to which I’m prone) and circulatory diseases (for which I have inherited a tendency). Alas! I need to get this sorted out - a pressure that doesn’t exactly contribute to relaxation and proper sleep.

Its time to return to simple spiritual disciplines and centering prayer at the end of the day. Time to turn my attention away from myself and towards the work that needs to be done. Both of these things really help when I need to get back into the swing of things.

I don’t want to admit that the disruption is caused by my age. But this blog certainly sounds like it was written by an old man who has gotten too set in his ways.

If I had time, I’d write another - about a more interesting topic.

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I grew up in a large and wonderfully complex family. The story of our family is much too long to be adequately told in a single blog post, but here is one quick version: My parents had a stable life-long marriage and formed a blended family with four adopted children and three children born to them. It was a great setting for growing up from my perspective. I learned early in my life that other people matter and that they have impact on your life. We don’t always agree. We have to work through our disagreements. My father used to say, sometimes frequently, “You can’t resign from a family.” Learning that there are commitments that you can’t back out of was a good life lesson for me.

Now, from the perspective of more than six decades, I find myself continuing to be amazed by my family of birth. A lot has happened in those years. Both of our parents have died. One sister and one brother have died. All of the seven children have married. Five of the seven have been through a divorce, some more than one. There is at least one grandchild from each of the seven children and many great-grandchildren as well. Most of us have moved many times and four of the seven have lived significant portions of our lives in other states. Of the seven I’m the one who has moved the most and I’ve been living in the same house for 20 years now, so we probably aren’t as mobile as some families. Currently the five remaining siblings are living in just three states. There have been times when we have been more spread out.

As one might expect, I have more contact with some of my siblings and less with others. We have more and less common interests. The same is true with my nieces and nephews. Some are well known to me and I have regular contact with them, others are more distant and I see them infrequently.

We are very different in terms of our choice of vocation and our lifestyles. None of us chose paths that led to wealth, but we have all figured out how to make our way in this world.

There is nothing particularly distinctive in the fact that we have a lot of differences in our family. That is common in families that are smaller than ours.

Some of the grief in our family is old. It has been over 40 years since our sister died. We lost our father more than 30 years ago. Some grief is newer and less processed. Our brother died in 2010 and our mother in 2011. What I have realized in the time since our mother’s death is how key her presence was in keeping our relationships strong and alive. She lived in our home for the last few years of her life and during that time my siblings made the trip to South Dakota to visit her. Since her death only one of my sisters has come to visit us and she has not been able to visit as much as she did when our mother was alive. It is clear that the job of remaining in touch with our family has now fallen on our shoulders. We can’t expect someone else to take that responsibility.

And, as I have said, we are a wonderfully diverse group. We have different levels of familiarity and comfort with technology. I have siblings with whom I send text messages and exchange e-mail on a regular basis. I have siblings that change their phone numbers often enough that I’m not always sure what number to call. I joke, though somewhat seriously, that I have a brother who doesn’t seem to know how to dial a phone. If I want to talk to him, I have to push the buttons. He may not even know how to answer the phone, but on occasion one of his family members will hand it to him and we get to talk.

I have nieces and nephews from whom I’ve never received a letter - a strange development in a family that was marked by letters. Our mother used to type family letters using carbon paper and send them out in bulk to keep everyone informed. But the world is changing. We have new and convenient ways to communicate. Pictures of our grandchildren circulate via e-mail and text attachments. Some of us use FaceTime or Skype to talk and see each other.

This family was a good place for me to learn many things that I use often in the church. Our church family is complex with lots of differences. We have to use many different forms of communication to remain close. Some messages come by phone, some by e-mail. Recently we changed the distribution of our monthly newsletter. At one time in my pastorate the newsletter was a print document bulk mailed to more than 400 addresses. Now we print less than 100 copies. Most of our members receive the newsletter via e-mail. It can also be accessed through the church web site. No one had a web site when I began my pastoral ministry. There were no classes on electronic communications and the digital church when I was in seminary. But we still have members who depend on the printed newsletter to keep them informed. They want to receive it in the mail and read each copy carefully. Our family needs to take those differences seriously and use different media to carry our message to different people.

A church really is very much like a family. And we all grew up in different families and bring different expectations to our relationship. Like our families, the church is wondrously complex and sometimes frustrating.

The lesson I am still learning is how to take responsibility for keeping the family together and keeping in touch with everyone. It is all about relationships and relationships thrive on regular contact.

Fortunately we have each other to share that responsibility.

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Emigrants traveling on the Oregon Trail would have been impressed. Of course, they took a different route than we, heading from Independence, Missouri across Nebraska to Scottsbluff, up to Laramie, through South Pass to Fort Bridger in southwest Wyoming, across Southern Idaho then up to Baker City to meet the Columbia River. Our route would have been known, at least in theory, to Oregon Trail travelers, though they would have known about the Missouri River and not much about what is today western South Dakota except that it was home to the Sioux Indians and dangerous country through which to travel.

Travelers on the Oregon Trail, of course, wouldn’t consider leaving on September 20. If that is when they arrived in Missouri, they would have spent the entire winter there, gathering supplies, making friends for the journey, and waiting until spring brought good weather and sufficient grass to feed their animals along the way. Leave too early and there wouldn’t be enough feed for your animals. Leave too late, and the snow would catch up with you in Eastern Oregon and survival would be in question. Those who took the southern route from Fort Hall through Nevada and across the northwest corner of California faced serious shortages of food for the animals in the desert and they still could get caught in the snow in the Cascades.

Oregon Trail travelers hoped to make about 15 miles per day. Most of them walked most of the way, riding only occasionally when illness or injury made it difficult to walk. The oxen would pull the wagon and had to be kept in good health because they were the power for farming once the family arrived in Oregon City and staked out their land in the Willamette Valley. Their wagons were equipped with all of the household goods they thought they would need, whatever personal possessions they had, tools, and farming implements.

They would have been impressed with our camper, complete with four bunks, a spacious double bed, a complete kitchen with all the utensils and a bathroom with a shower. In place of oxen, we pull our camper with a reliable, modern pickup with both heat and air conditioning. They couldn’t have imagined traveling in climate controlled comfort. We, of course, can’t imagine traveling without a network of service stations along the way that allow us to stop for refueling whenever we want.

Our camper would have been considered to be very spacious to Oregon Trail travelers. Most of them had 4’ x 10’ farm wagons. They would not have been impressed with our food stocks. A thousand pounds of food was considered standard for the journey. The total weight of their loaded wagons would have been about the same as our trailer. Our truck, however, weighs more than their team would have weighed.

They would not have been able to imagine our rate of travel. We covered roughly one third of the trail - 770 miles - in 1 1/2 days. We were covering four days of travel at their pace each hour. In the span of two weeks in August and one week in September we covered the span of the Oregon Trail both directions. And when we went west, we crossed the Rockies on a northerly trail, closer to the Lewis and Clark route.

Compared to the Oregon Trail travelers, our trip was pretty safe. We didn’t have to worry about getting run over by a wagon (almost certain death for Oregon Trail travelers) and we had virtually no risk of accidental gun shot - one of the common risks that ended the journey for many travelers on the trail. Cholera wasn’t a fear of ours. Some wagon trains lost as many as two-thirds of their travelers to that disease.

They, like us, didn’t have much to fear from Native Americans. A very few violent encounters that occurred along the trail have been blown out of proportion in the minds of many people today. Most of the encounters with indigenous tribes along the Oregon Trail were positive, with a little trading between the people. Most encounters were friendly. Wagons were circled to corral livestock, not to defend from flaming arrows.

A lot has changed since Marcus and Narcissi Whitman made the trip in 1836. They traveled in advance of the main flow of settlers. The first mass migration did not occur until 1843, when an estimated 1,000 people journeyed together. From that time on it is estimated at 500,000 people attempted the trail, taking from 4 to 6 months to complete the journey. After 1848, a pretty good number of settlers headed to California in search of gold. About half of the 300,000 people who followed the great gold rush traveled overland on the Oregon Trail.

Then, in 1869, the transcontinental railroad was completed and there was a whole new way of traveling across the country.

We, of course, do not need to set up a new life now that our trip is complete. We don’t have to find suitable land, build a house and figure out how we’ll get enough food to survive the winter. We have a home and a job to which we are returning after a trip taken for pleasure.

The real luxury of our lives, however, isn’t the speed of our travel, the comfort of our camper or the home and job we enjoy. Compared to the travelers on the Oregon Trail, we have the luxury of being able to stay in touch with family even though we live in different locations. Our daughter and son-in-law live near the beginning of the Oregon Traill Our son and his family live near the end. We live north of the 1/3 mark of the trail. But we talk to our family members many times each week. We get to see them face-to-face a couple of times each year. We often are able celebrate holidays and birthdays together. When the travelers on the trail said good bye to family it was the last they saw of their loved ones.

I’m pretty sure I wouldn’t have been much for the trail. I might have been one of the ones who stayed behind. But in today’s world I love to travel and as I travel I like to remember those who have gone before.

Today we’re off the trail and back to work. It has been a good trip.

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On this visit to our daughter and son-in-law, we took a piece of furniture to deliver to them. It is a sideboard or buffet, a piece that was designed sit next to a dining room table and hold the tablecloths and other items used at the table. It also could be used as a serving area for extra dishes when the table is full. This particular buffet matches a table that we had previously delivered to their home. The table and buffet have a bit of a story to go with them.

Back in the 1930’s couples getting married had to figure out a way of life that didn’t involve much money. There wasn’t much money around in those days. This was especially true in rural places where the Great Depression was taking its toll on farm families and jobs were scarce. My father-in-law used to say, “Everyone was poor during the depression. Charlotte’s family was really poor.” Charlotte was my mother-in-law. Her father died leaving the family without a source of income. Here older brother and sisters were out of the home, but Charlotte and her mother had to make do by taking in laundry and accepting other odd jobs.They lived in Isabel, in Grant County, South Dakota. Just out of town, across the Zwiebach County line, her sister was trying to get started in life in a new marriage. The new couple was living in a farm house raising a few head of sheep and digging coal by hand from the hillside to sell to the school district to heat the school. It was a hard life and one of the entertainments for the new couple was to look through the Montgomery Wards catalogue and imagine the things they might buy when they saved enough money.

The entertainment value of the catalogues, which were free to customers, was great enough that the young couple saved the catalogues for all of their married years. We had to figure out what to do with all of those old catalogues when we helped clean out their place as they moved into a care center.

One item that caught their attention was furniture. They imagined having a dining room set for their farmhouse. Wards had a table with two leafs, six chairs and a sideboard that they admired.

They not only admired the set. They saved their money. And when they had enough they ordered that set. It came on the train to Mobridge and the couple drove up and picked it up. It served as the centerpiece of life in their little farm house for four decades.

Back in the late 1970’s, Susan and I graduated from Theological Seminary and accepted the call to serve two congregations in Southwest North Dakota. We moved into the parsonage in Hettinger without any furniture. We owned one small desk. That was it. We managed to pick up a bed and a kitchen table with chairs and got a small sofa and chair that had been in the family but were no longer needed. It was at that time that the time came to sell the farm in South Dakota. We were offered the dining room set (and the Montgomery Wards catalogue from which it was ordered). We borrowed a pickup truck and made the trip down to get the table, buffet and chairs.

The chairs were in pretty rough shape and needed quite a bit of re-gluing, but the set served well. The parsonage didn’t have a dining room, but there was a corner of the living room that served the purpose. The table was a place for entertaining guests.

When we moved from North Dakota to Idaho, the table came with us and had an honored place in our dining room. That home had a smaller kitchen and we ate our family meals around that table in the dining room for a decade. It was the site of Thanksgiving and Christmas dinners and plenty of guest sat around the table.

From Idaho, the table was moved to South Dakota. It suffered a break in one of the braces on the legs in that move, the only damage we had during that move. Out came the glue and the repair was soon completed. It moved into the dining area of our kitchen in our home and was our family table through our children’s high school years.

After having served two generations of our family and enduring several moves, the table and the buffet were replaced with another set, also obtained from family members. They were placed into storage for a short time. The table made its move to our daughter’s home in Missouri in 2011. Now in its third generation, it was refinished for the second time and continues to serve.

Last week the buffet came out of storage, was wrapped in furniture pads and made the trip to Missouri to join the table. It, too, will need to be refinished.

We have several pieces of furniture in our home that have come to us in the family and are serving their third or fourth generation. Some are even in their fifth or sixth generation. But old furniture, handed down through the family, isn’t the style of the generations who are younger than us. Some of the things in our home might be in their last generation of family ownership. It is hard to imagine what will happen to those things when their time comes. So it is nice to know that the table and buffet have a home in a new generation.

We have reached the stage in our lives when one of our jobs is sorting. We have to decide what to keep and what to pass on. Not everything can stay in the family. Some things need to go to other families through the thrift store or a rummage sale. As we sort, we need to remember that the items themselves are not the source of family meaning and values. More important than the items are the family stories. Even when the items are gone the stories remain.

Our job is to make sure we pass on the stories.

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Last night we went out for dinner. It was homecoming at the high school in the community where we were eating and there restaurant was crowded. In addition to the usual Saturday evening crowd, there were groups of teenagers, dressed for a dance, out to dinner, working hard to impress each other. We had to wait a while for a table and when we got one, the restaurant was full, the waitress a bit overworked and harried, and the place was noisy with the crowd.

We were seated at a booth and my back was to a young man who was out with three young children, a baby, who was probably not yet two years old, who sometimes sat in a high chair, two little girls who sat next to the man who I presumed was their father. Across from the man was a younger woman and a young teen, who might have been mother and daughter, but the relationships were unclear. I could tell from the overheard conversations that the mother of the children wasn’t present.

Of course their lives and circumstances were none of my business and what I know of them came only from overheard snatches of conversation as we sat enjoying our meal and the company of our daughter and son-in-law.

In addition to being crowded with noisy and excited patrons, the restaurant was filled with memorabilia and bright lights and all kinds of things to look at. Many of the items would be of interest to children, including a horse from a carousel, several child’s riding toys, pictures of people in interesting situations, blinking and shining lights, games, and more. The place clearly was stimulating for the baby in the booth next to us and he was quickly overstimulated, perhaps tired, and soon was fussy. The father clearly had his hands full, trying to order for himself and for the children while dealing with the crying baby. A couple of times he got up and walked out with the baby to calm him down, which was probably a very good idea.

I was uncomfortable with the father’s raised voice, angry words and manner with the baby and the other children. It must have been very awkward for the others with whom he was dining. It was miserable for the baby, who probably didn’t get much to eat, was overstimulated and tired, was out of his comfort zone, and couldn’t figure out how to garner affection from this father.

Again, none of this was any of my business. I just happened to be seated close enough to witness.

As they got up to leave after what must have been a less-than-satisfying meal, a wave of gratitude flooded over me. I thought of the father, who might have been separated from the children’s mother and have them only for the weekend. He seemed to be not very practiced at caring for them. Perhaps he was trying to make a positive impression on the young woman, and failed to do so. Perhaps he was out for dinner with his children and a sibling, it wasn’t clear what the relationships were.

Part of my gratitude was for the simple fact that when we were at the stage of babies I always had a partner to help me with caring for the children. When I was frustrated, my wife was there to help me with caring for the child. Often when we were out with friends, our friends were experienced with children and quick to pitch in and help. If a child needed to be taken from a setting, there were other adults to care for the other child. Compared to what I imagined of the life of that young man, I had it easy.

I was enjoying a meal of good food with good company. The wait for the table and the crowded restaurant were no threat to our evening out. We had time. We didn’t feel stressed by service that was a bit slower than usual and a room that was a bit louder than usual. We had plenty to talk about and time to spare. Our meal out was our primary agenda for the evening. We weren’t rushing to get to another location, anxious about another event.

I know that there are all kinds of reasons that the young man might have been in the situation of being solo caregiver for three children. It is possible that he was separated from his wife. Divorce and separation happens in all kinds of families. All but one of my siblings have experienced divorce. A couple of them have gone through multiple divorces. I’m aware of the pain that comes with separation. I’ve witnessed some rather nasty custody battles. Our lives have been free from those particular stresses and pains. I was lucky in marriage and our children have found wonderful and supportive spouses.

It is possible that the young man was in charge of the children because of an illness or other family crisis. Maybe his wife was out of town caring for her parents or a sibling and he was suddenly left with the care of the children. Maybe the children’s mother was herself ill. These things happen every day.

I added gratitude for strong marriages and healthy relationships to my list of blessings. The blessing of physical health and the health of my loved ones is another source of gratitude.

I am grateful that while I have been able to visit cities and experience the many wonderful and exciting things they have to offer, I’ve been allowed to live in less crowded places. When I am in a packed restaurant, it is a special occasion, not an everyday experience. My daily life is lived with a luxury of space. Our neighbors aren’t too close, our lives aren’t too crowded. I can sit alone on my deck and watch the deer and turkeys without being too crowded. The world is filled with people who are crammed into cities and lack the access to open space and nature that I too often take for granted.

The wave of gratitude stayed with me throughout the evening and remains as I write this blog. In the scheme of things, I am a very fortunate person and there is much for which to be thankful every day.

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Although I did serious study and interned in pastoral counseling during my seminary years, I have never considered myself to be a professional counselor. I have not kept up with the latest in research, I have not kept up with the requirements of professional certification, and I have not engaged in certification and peer review for counseling. I am aware that there are plenty of people who claim the title “counselor” with fewer credentials. I have been very careful in making referrals and making sure that when I am involved I direct people to obtain counseling from qualified and competent professionals. And I do a lot of informal listening and supporting. Across the span of my career I have discovered that the role of pastor is different than the role of counselor and I choose to function as pastor and engage others to provide counseling when necessary.

Intensive psychological therapy can be important for the overall health of people and those who have psychological diseases and disorders deserve the best in care. We wouldn’t consider allowing someone who doesn’t have the proper education to practice surgery. We shouldn’t consider allowing someone who doesn’t have the proper education to practice therapy with others.

That aside, I do have some experience and training with psychological health and I have kept myself current and well informed in aspects of psychological first aid.

Back when I was in graduate school, one of my mentors and teachers spoke of three qualities of time that each person needs: time alone, productive time and intimacy. Humans are most healthy when we achieve a balance of time for personal reflection and quiet, time to do work and accomplish tasks, and time to be in relationship with others. All are important and when we are short of one or more types of time, we tend to be less effective with the time we spend on other parts of our lives. Those who don’t have enough personal time, sometimes make grave errors in relationships. Those who have a lack of intimacy with others are less productive at work. The key is balance.

This doesn’t, of course, explain all psychological illnesses and disorders. It is just one perspective on the very complex persons that we are. But there is a grain of truth in the theory that can provide perspective.

My work involves a lot of relationship time. When I am being productive, I am participating in tasks that are bigger than myself. I don’t accomplish much alone. Most of what I do requires working with others as a team. That means that I need to be attentive to the work of relationships, honing communication skills, listening carefully, looking beyond my own interests and intentions to the good of the wider community and developing strategies to recruit new members into the process. I go to a lot of meetings. I spend a lot of time in conversation. I weigh decisions in the light of others’ thoughts, feelings and intentions. And I am constantly reminded that we are called to invest in the future. The church is a multiple-generation process. Although ministry involves tasks that are accomplished, it is always an investment in future generations. Those who minister need to develop perspective to keep the long-term picture in view.

As a result, my days are filled with time for relationships and time for productivity. What can get shortchanged in all of this is time alone. It is a problem of pastors that is as old as the church itself. The Gospels speak of Jesus’ need to go off by himself. Often these are reported as early in the morning events. Occasionally the disciples are left wondering where Jesus has gone. Unlike Moses, another great leader of people, who would go off to the mountain alone for days at a time, Jesus seemed to find his alone times in bits and pieces in the midst of intense activity.

I too seem to get my alone time in small doses. I have long been an early riser, getting out of bed at times when others sleep and finding moments to think, pray, and write. In what others might describe as the dark of night, I listen to the crickets chirp, breathe in the the coolness of morning, and anticipate the sunrise as I look to the east for the pre-dawn glow. I don’t find the dark to be frightening. Far from nocturnal, I simply have found that bed is best for sleeping and when I am not sleeping sometimes it is a good thing to rise and open my eyes and listen to the quiet of the day.

Despite the very public nature of my job, I experience myself as a private person, slow to speak about my own self. My work often involves putting others first. In certain groups, I can be a quiet person. Recently, a colleague with whom I had served on a committee for years commented that she was surprised when I spoke up because I am often very quiet at meetings. I thought I had been participating in the meetings fully and have never felt left out of the group processes, but I guess I didn’t speak up as much as she expected. Such a perspective would come as a surprise to many of the people with whom I work. I often have a story or thought to contribute and I’m not shy when it comes to pubic speaking. But her comment made me feel good because she saw me as I see myself: not always needing to be the center of attention and content to listen when others speak.

I don’t have the balance perfect. Sometimes I neglect my personal time. Sometimes I get too engaged in work and don’t commit enough time to family and more intimate relationships. This year has afforded me a good balance of vacation and work time. By dividing our vacation into three different segments, I have been able to take short breaks to balance the intensity of work. It might be confusing to some of the people I serve because there have been three vacations instead of one, but from my point of view it has been a good balance.

And balance is important in life.

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One thing about having wooden boats is that people will talk to you about them. I am constantly having conversations with strangers that begin with, “Are those boats wooden?’ followed by, “Did you make them yourself?” Most of the time I’ll get a compliment, “Pretty boat.” The boats are pretty. And I do like talking about my hobby.

Sometimes the boats will give rise to other forms of conversation. Yesterday, a local fishermen heading out into Harry Truman Reservoir for catfish asked, “You hall those boats all the way down here just to put them in the reservoir?” It doesn’t work exactly like that, but yes, I did hall them all this way to paddle here. The truth is that I came to Missouri to see our daughter and son in law and that I take boats with me wherever I go and that I like to paddle in new places. My boats get more miles on the rack on the pickup than they will ever get in the water. They are easy to load and haul. It isn’t like one of the fancy bass boats that we see down here. My boats travel for free. Of course I’m aware that they do create some windage and affect the gas mileage of the truck a little bit, but that is a price I’m willing to pay to have a boat available when I come upon a bit of water.

One of the boats that I have with me on this trip has been in the Atlantic Ocean, the Bay of Fundy, Lake Superior, Lake Michigan, Lake Huron, the Missouri River, Fort Peck Lake, Lake Sakakawea, Lake Oahe, Lake Francis Case, Shadehill Reservoir, Sheridan Lake, Pactola Lake, Deerfield Reservoir, Angostura Reservoir, Horse Thief Lake, Legion Lake, Sylvan Lake, Bismarck Lake, Center Lake, Stockade Lake, the Yellowstone River, Lake Coeur d’Alene, the Snake River, the Salmon River, the Puget Sound, the Pacific Ocean, and dozens of other small lakes and rivers over the years. It has been to both the east and west coasts of the U.S.A. and of Canada. My boats have been inspected for invasive species on multiple occasions and I have been educated in the proper procedures for scrubbing and drying my boats so that I don’t transport invasive species from lake to lake.

I like to paddle. I like to have a boat along with me when I go exploring a place. I enjoy putting my boats into the water.

So the answer to whether or not I came all the way to Missouri just to paddle my boats hinges in the word “just.” I didn’t come all the way here just to paddle, but I enjoy paddling now that I have come here.

Truman reservoir is the second largest reservoir in the Missouri River system. (Yes my boats have been in Lake Sakakawea, the largest.) It is also the newest. Authorized in 1954, it took a decade for construction of the dam to begin. One of the most formidable challenges of the process was land acquisition. There were numerous roads, towns and cemeteries that had to be moved. There were a lot of bridges that had to be constructed. Construction was completed in 1979. The bluff overlooking the confluence of the South Grand River, Tebo Creek and the Osage River was a local landmark before the completion of the dam. Now it is the home of a dramatic visitor’s center where you can see the size and scope of the dam and view turkey vultures soaring high in the sky. A state park, also named for President Harry S. Truman, occupies a peninsula jutting out into the reservoir.

This trip is our second visit to Truman reservoir. On our previous visit, we had a different camper and we were also hauling a row boat that I made, which was fun for exploring the edges of the reservoir. This trip afforded me the opportunity to try out a new kayak sailing rig. I discovered that it will also pull a canoe at a reasonable pace. It works mostly for sailing downwind and I have a lot yet to learn about sailing, but exploring with the boat was a fun adventure in the light winds of last evening. When the weather gets rough, as I am sure it does around here, it is time for me to pull my boats off of the water.

That is another nice feature about small boats. I can choose when to put them into the water and when to stay on dry land.

It has been a good trip for exploring some of the rural areas of Missouri. Along state route 7, not far from where we are camped, is a little town named Tightwad, Missouri. It isn’t the kind of name one is likely to forget. The local story is that a store owner cheated a customer, who was a postman, by charging him an extra 50 cents for a watermelon. There is also a version of the story that involves the sale of a chicken. It isn’t a large town, but it has a cafe, a bar and a convenience store. There are numerous storage facilities for campers and boats that are used on Truman Reservoir. There once was a bank in the town, but the sign had been covered up by the time of our visit yesterday. I thought it would be good to have a picture of the Tightwad Bank, but that will have to wait for another time.

The drawl in the voices of the locals reminds us that we aren’t at home, but we can understand how locals get the feeling of familiarity and security in these small communities. Small town life, wherever it occurs, involves learning to get along with your neighbors and work for your community.

I’m sure we’d find topics of conversation with people wherever we traveled even if we didn’t have wooden boats atop our truck, but the boats provide a good conversation starter and open the door for us to learn about the interesting people and places that we have been privileged to visit.

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At the cutting edge of science and technology, there are always new words coined to describe new phenomena. We continue to marvel as the computer industry goes through bytes and kilobytes, and megabytes on its way to gigabytes, terabytes, petabytes, exabytes, zettabytes and yottabytes. Theoretical physicists speak of quarks and research into neutrinos is all the rage in the scientific community. Technical and scientific language has become a specialty among the editors of dictionaries as our language expands to keep up with our expanding understanding of the universe and new theories about how it may be organized.

We have been slower, however, to come up with language to describe our growing understanding of spiritual relationships. Perhaps our understanding is not growing as quickly in that arena as it is in the language of science. Perhaps the ancient words and language are more fitting to describe our discoveries. Whatever the reason, the field of religion seems to have a tendency to use the old words when describing our discoveries.

There is nothing wrong with old words. In fact the process of attaching new meaning to old words is a long and ancient part of the human story. If you study the scriptures it is clear that the concept of God has undergone a wide variety of meanings as our people grew to understand God. There have been times when God was employed to explain any phenomena that was not understood. God was a term for that which lay beyond our understanding. There have been other times when God was the term applied to a special relationship that guided the decisions of our forebears. When Abraham and Sarah set forth into the land that God was going to show them, they thought in terms of God being the creator of a particular area of land in the ancient Near East. They didn’t think in terms of the globe because they didn’t experience the world as such. It was many generations before people began to think in those terms. The concept of God had to be expanded to match the discovery of the scale of the world. As we began to understand more, so our concept of God grew. Now we speak of God as creator of the universe and are beginning to understand that uni-verse doesn’t describe the fullness of reality. Some have taken to speak of multi-verse to begin to describe the many different dimensions of reality.

Sometimes it seems as if we need to invent a new language to speak of care and compassion and the role of humans in vastness of time and space. Our attitude toward this plant has been largely one of consumption. When the world’s population was relatively small, our methods of consumption were relatively small as well. As our population grow, our capacity to extract the things we wanted in larger quantities grew. Coal, for example, has been used by humans for fuel for many hundreds of years. But the rate of extracting coal from the earth has sped up as our demand for energy has increased. At the current rate of acceleration, it is estimated that we will have consumed the readily mineable coal from the earth in the next 40 years, making 90% of human consumption a product of the last half of the 20th century and the first half of the 21st century. When the coal is gone - or so scarce that the price makes its use unaffordable, we will probably come up with another way to fuel our lights and appliances. Less certain than the inevitable decrease in the consumption of coal, is what large scale environmental changes will be caused by the burning of fossil fuels. There are some who believe that we are fully capable of rendering our planet uninhabitable within in the next century.

We don’t seem to have the language for the value of leaving things the way they are - for allowing land to go undeveloped and remaining wild. We lack the words for teaching ourselves to consume less and live more simply. Our attitudes have shaped our language into the language of growth and expansion and increased consumption.

Similarly, we seem to lack the language of peace. We have learned to live with colors to indicate the level of risk of terror. We have learned new words to describe different weapons employed. We speak of IEDs and suicide bombers and the response of drones and smart weapons. We take it for granted that not only do we have the capability to send troops around the globe to fight, we also have warriors who do their work in remote locations while remaining in their operations centers in the midst of our own country. We’ve developed the language to describe some of the injuries inflicted by war such as PTSD and TBIs.

We have been slower to develop the language of peace and nonviolent conflict resolution. We have been slower to imagine the ways of peace and the possibility of decreasing violence in human interactions.

It seems unlikely that I will ever contribute to the expanding vocabulary of human interaction, but if I could, I would find words to describe the uniqueness of each individual in the midst of the multitude of commonalities that we share. I would find words to describe the power that enables us to share burdens and pains as a community and transform that which is unbearable as an individual into something that we can together face with joy. I would make new words to speak of the resiliency of human beings. I would explore the outer edges of our power to forgive and forge new ways to move beyond retaliation to reconciliation.

That’s the way that I think. I would love to see as much energy invested in making peace as we invest in making weapons - as much energy invested in searching for lost children as we invest in searching for dark means and dark energy.

Sometimes the feelings inspired by being in the presence of God are beyond the language that I possess. And that is a good thing. Maybe in the silence of awe we will discover the seeds of a new language.

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Went for a gentle walk yesterday. It is a sort of vacation style venture. I walk quite a bit in my everyday life, and perhaps don’t walk any more when I am on vacation, but there is a vacation pace that I have found. I grabbed my camera and stopped whenever something caught my eye. Less distance, more time. Less focus, more seeing. I’ve blogged on the topic before: sometimes there is a value in wandering and being a bit less driven by purpose an the need to accomplish something. On vacation, I can allow my mind to wander and be inspired by the ordinary. I don’t have to aspire to great achievements, it is acceptable to just witness the glory of the world that surrounds me.

Unlike formal gardens, which have their joys and pleasures, the woods have a kind of disarray, with lots of color in one place and a monochromatic look in others. The forest doesn’t care if a plant is a flower or a weed. Some of the weeds have beautiful flowers. The spaces of color stand out here in the Missouri woods because the background is a plate of shades of green. At one point in my walk yesterday, I was reflecting on how many different shades of green that I could see. The green of the oaks is different from the green of the cedars, which is different from the green of the grass, which is different from the green of the pond, which is different from the green of the lilies floating on the pond.

You might think that in order to be camouflaged in that surrounding, a creature would want to be green. As I walked, however, I ran into a box turtle who was very happy being brown. He didn’t stand out excessively, but since he was right on the path, he was easy for me to see. He didn’t seem to mind being photographed and gave me time to focus several pictures before moving on. Even then, he showed no need to hide. He stayed right on the path, allowing me to pass by on one side without even alarming him enough to get him to draw in his head.

A bit farther down the path I watched for a while as a spider began its work on a dragon fly captured in its web. The dragon fly was several times larger than the spider and the web nearly broke apart with the motions of the dragon fly. It held fast at several points, however, and the dragon fly succumbed to the sticky web. It is a drama that plays out every day in many locations. Usually such events are unwitnessed by human eyes. It is the kind of thing I might miss if I were in a hurry or had my attention focused on the usual events and problems of life. But in vacation mode, I was taking time and seeing things. A bit of motion in the qheriphy of my vision was enough to alert me to a wonder of nature.

Too often in my everyday life I am occupied with what seem at the time to be the big issues. There are decisions to be made, budgets to be balanced, causes to be supported, problems to be solved, people to be visited, plans to be made, proposals to be drafted, events to be planned and so much more that needs to be done. I have discovered, however, that some of my most creative thinking and some of the best ideas for moving forward as a community come from the times when I am less focused - when I am paying attention to a few small details instead of trying to get the big picture.

Watching a turtle invites me to remember the value of patience. Watching a spider going after its meal reminds me of the value of persistence. Capturing the image of a burst of color from a blooming weed reminds me that brilliance often comes in surges and that beauty is often the product of contrast with the background.

I am amazed at how things that seemed like big problems become minor challenges when I allow my mind to wander. There is something to the perspective of having left the main flow of business behind that gives one the perspective to discover potential new directions and possible solutions.

For years I have been writing that pilgrimage is not about the destination, but rather all about the journey. Sometimes, however, I forget the truths that I know. Vacation is good for me, but it is also good for the church. Our community grows through changes in perspective and it is important for leaders to look at the community from different points of view.

At home fall is in the air even though there are still plenty of warm days in store. You can feel the chill in the morning and know that the change of seasons is upon us. Down here, that change is much less evident. It stays warm all night long and daytime temperatures soar into the eighties - not at hot as mid summer for this location - but very summer-like for those of us visiting from up north. I suspect that it feels very different for the creatures who live hear year round. The woods are filled with animals preparing for winter. They have a sense of urgency as they feel the changes in temperature and length of day. With the nights getting longer and the days growing shorter there is much to be done.

I am grateful for the opportunity to visit this place and experience the riches of life that surrounds me. It doesn’t keep me from thinking about what is going on back at home. I still have my list of chores that need to be accomplished to prepare for winter, but a week’s break is just right to give me a fresh perspective and renewed energy for the tasks that lie ahead.

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Silence, I think, is very rare. When we take time to quiet ourselves and really listen, there are all kinds of sounds that come to our ears. For years I have used the term “quiet prayer” instead of “silent prayer” in formal worship. I actually believe that the sounds that we hear when we take time to quiet ourselves can add to the quality of worship. When we hear the breathing of others, the gentle sounds of children, the wind in the trees and the sounds of our own breathing, we become aware of our place in the world in ways that are not so obvious in the general hustle and bustle of our busy lives.

There have been a few times when I have experienced very quiet places. The Idaho desert can be very quiet at night. Sometimes when you are lying in your bed in a very quiet place, you can hear your own heart and the blood circulating through your body.

Most of the time, however, we are surrounded by sounds.

The sounds of the forest where we are camping are very different from the sounds of the hills at home. At home we have the sounds of wind in the trees, an occasional song of the coyote, once in a while an owl. Where we live, we also have plenty of people sounds. We hear he cars on the road and the planes going to and from the airport and the Air Force Base. Ellsworth is home to the B-1 bomber which has a roar when it takes off that is even louder when they fire the afterburners for maximum thrust. The planes climb quickly and soon are out of earshot. And the crickets chirp though the summer evenings.

We’re camped in a hardwood forest today and though it is early, it is far from quiet. The song of the woods is the sound of the frogs. I don’t know how many frogs there are, but it sounds like a chorus of thousands. They have been singing all night long and there is indication that there will be any letup. There are also a few crickets that must be closer to our camper than the frogs because their chirps form a sort of foreground to the choral background. In the night I heard the hoot of an owl. I couldn’t tell from my limited experience what kind of owl it was, but I imagined a great horned owl hunting in the woods. I even wondered if owls eat frogs, though I’ve been taught that owls hunt by sight more than by sound.

As if often true when we camp, we’re not too far from the railroad, though the trees are dense enough to mute that sound and it actually seems farther away than I expected, knowing where the tracks run.

Once in the night I heard the planes depart from Whiteman Air Force Base. The B-2 is different from the sounds of the planes at home. There is a roar and a rush of air, but it quickly fades and it is hard to tell which direction the plane has gone.

In the midst of all of these new sounds of a new place, I slept remarkably well. The sounds were comforting, not disturbing. There were no sounds that seemed to me to be threatening. Of course, we’re pretty safe in our hard-sided camper, though I see nothing that would make me afraid to sleep in a tent in this place.

We are camped in Knob Noster State Park, near the town with the same name. There are many small hills in the area, and I don’t know if there is a single one from which the town and park gain their names. Perhaps the knobs are plural, though the name speaks of a single one. I read something that said that the local lore is that it was the place of a battle between different tribes of native people, though I know nothing of the indigenous tribes, nor of the battle. There is also some local lore that the nobs contained buried treasure, though I don’t think the treasure has ever been found.

Mostly Knob Noster is part of a rural area between the Missouri and Osage Rivers. There was a brief boom in the 1870’s when thick veins of coal were found near the surface of the land, but the coal was quickly mined and the boom was over in a decade or so. In the 1890’s a fire nearly destroyed the town, but enough remained that they rebuilt the town after the fire. Since then it has been a rural area without too many people - the kind of place that the U.S. was looking for to locate an Air Force Base during the frenzy and intensity of the Second World War. It was felt that locating bases at the center of the country made them less vulnerable to potential attack from enemy air forces. It must have worked. There’s never been an attack on Whiteman Air Force Base.

The base provides the jobs for our daughter and son-in-law. They live about 10 miles away in Warrensburg, so the campground in Knob Noster State Park is a perfect base for us as we visit.

This is our first night of camping in this place. We camped at our daughter’s home when we had our previous camper. This is our first visit with this particular camper. So I don’t know the sounds of this place very well. I think that the frogsong occurs only at night. I didn’t hear them in the day when we were setting up our camper. At that time, there were a few birds chirping and the rustle of the breeze in the leaves. The wind in deciduous trees is different than the rustle of wind in the pine branches. It is a delightful sound. So we will be learning the sounds of this place.

It isn’t silent, but it is quiet and the sounds are comforting. Some days - and some nights - listening to the quiet is a joyful experience.

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I once heard someone say that there are two types of people: nesters and travelers. I don’t buy the dichotomy. I know people who are good at both staying home and at traveling. In a way, I think having a secure home base is one of the elements that contributes to the joys of traveling. That aside, I have enjoyed traveling for as long as I can remember. There were some epic trips in my childhood. Our whole family made trips from Montana to Washington, D.C., Chicago, Salt Lake City, San Francisco, and Seattle in our airplane. There were lots of other trips made by car. One year, when I was a teenager, we flew to Detroit, MI, picked up a new car and drove it to New York City, down to Washington D.C. and back across the country home.

When we had been married for just over a year, Susan and I moved from our Montana to Chicago. I made an advance trip with a pickup load of our possessions and then we went out together in our car. We traveled back and forth several times during our years in Chicago. When we graduated, we traveled with my parents and sister and brother-in-law in Europe. We’ve been to Costa Rica multiple times and visited our daughter in England when she was living there. Both of us love to travel and have had some great trips together.

I have enjoyed the anticipation of trips and the process of traveling. Not all trips have been fun only, however. There have been flat tires and being broken down on the road. I remember one time of having to have a car towed on a Sunday and repairs took several days. On another trip, we had to push start our car over and over again, traveling over 1,000 miles without a functioning starter in the car. I got good at looking for hills when it was time to park. We’ve camped in the wind and in the rain and had some nearly sleepless nights in some pretty seedy motels.

In a way, the trials of the road are part of the process of traveling. Perhaps learning to meet and overcome challenges is part of the attraction of travel.

Risk and hard work are part of travel. In generations long ago, those who traveled were seen as the strongest and bravest because of the dangers of travel. In fact the word “travel” comes from “travail,” a word that English borrowed from French and the French modified from the Latin “tripalium.” A “tripalium” was a three-legged torture instrument. Travel, for those living in previous generations, was a struggle against steep odds with no guarantee of success. It took a lot of planning, grit, courage, hard work and usually involved high expense. The stories of immigrants coming to this country in the 18th Century almost all involve the investment of all of the family’s resources. The immigrants flooding into Europe from the Syrian crisis today arrive with no material resources after having literally risked their lives in the trip.

Not every trip we take involves much risk. We have all kinds of backup when we travel. We have access to our savings back at home. We carry credit cards. We drive reliable vehicles. But we are not adverse to hard work and enjoy a reasonable risk.

Although locals may see us as such, we rarely think of ourselves as tourists. We aren’t much for the pre-planned attractions. We don’t go in for resorts that cater to our every whim.

I prefer a canoe to a cruise boat. I want to feel the weather on my face and experience the heat and cold of travel.

Pilgrimage is a concept with deep traditions in many faiths. In Christianity, pilgrimage often involves going to a place where some historic event marked the journey of our people. A pilgrimage, however, is not primarily about the destination - it is about the journey. The process of traveling is what contributes to the spiritual growth of the pilgrim. When a pilgrim reaches a destination, the journey turns towards home with the expectation that the pilgrim is transformed by the process of travel. Back at home, those who await the return of the pilgrim are also transformed by the processes of worry, prayer, and absence. A pilgrim travels for the spiritual transformation of the entire community. Pilgrims are sent forth by their communities for the spiritual health and growth of the whole.

It probably isn’t fair to refer to a personal vacation as a pilgrimage, but there are elements of pilgrimage in every trip. Our absence from the community and the fact that we have different experiences than those at home requires a certain level of telling our story and listening to the stories of others. That process can help to build the community. Even on a personal trip like this one, we carry the good wishes, greetings and even a few cards from members of the church to our daughter. And we will return with her messages of greeting when we come home. Our trip embodies the truth that our community stretches across much geography. The love that binds us together is greater than the distances that divide us.

We didn’t travel very far yesterday - only about 275 miles. We didn’t get a very early start with the church school picnic and all of the various tasks of getting launched. We’ve got about 475 left to go today. We’ll need to get an early start to arrive in daylight and be there for the birthday dinner that we have planned. There is no guarantee that we will make it on time. There are a number of things that might delay us. But that is part of the adventure of travel. We don’t need guarantees. We are willing to take a few risks. We carry with us the ability to adapt and make changes in plans. We have phones to connect and decrease the worry. It is all part of the fun of the adventure.

The modes of our trips have changed over the years and I’ll confess that we travel at a pretty high level of luxury these days, but I hope we never lose the connection between “travel” and “travail.” For me the risk and hard work are essential parts of the process.

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Thirty-two years ago we were in Berkeley, California. It was our first extended study leave since we had been ordained. We had served five years in our first parish and although there was no sabbatical policy and the parish had never had a minister take a sabbatical, we worked out an agreement that allowed us to combine our vacation with two extra weeks of study leave so that we could participate in a short-term pastors in residence program at Pacific School of Religion. The school arranged for a small apartment and provided access to the library and classes. We defined a writing project and set off in our Ford Escort for the west coast.

Although our son had grown up with lots of car trips, it was the longest trip we’d ever taken with our then two-year-old. Our car had a cassette tape player in the dashboard and we had a cassette of the soundtrack to “A Chorus Line,” the 1975 Broadway Musical. A year or so earlier we had seen a production of the musical by the touring company in St. Louis, where my sister lived at the time. Our son loved the overture and the beginning of the musical, so that tape got played over and over as we ticked off the miles from North Dakota to northern California. And, of course, we didn’t take the shortest route. Susan had a sister living in Spokane and I had a brother in the Seattle Area, so we went out to the coast and took the drive down 101 to California, tent camping along the way.

By the time we got to California, I was tired of listening to A Chorus Line.

We thought our car was a pretty good deal. We had traded off our Ford Pinto for the smallest station-wagon in the Ford Fleet. The new car had a five-speed transmission and cruise control. We didn’t have air conditioning. We didn’t think we needed it, living in North Dakota. Times were different. Four doors are a luxury when you have a car seat in the back and the extra space afforded by the square shape of the car meant that there was room for our luggage and tent and sleeping bags, and, of course, the manual typewriter that we used for our writing projects at the time.

Having left Chicago with full access to the University of Chicago’s Regenstein Library, (one of the top five libraries in the world at the time) we were really looking forward to being able to spend time in a big library again. We had enough experience under our belts to be ready to do a little research and add a bit of learning to equip ourselves for going forward in the ministry.

It was an exciting trip. We drove across the Golden Gate Bridge and the Oakland Bay Bridge. Then we drove back over the Oakland Bay Bridge to visit San Francisco. We ate crab fresh steamed on the pier. We watched people in a place with a more diverse population that rural North Dakota. We met with seminary students for whom our parish was a yet unfulfilled dream. We took our son to meet a seminary professor who had moved from Chicago to California.

Life in North Dakota was going on while we were away. On September 14, as we were beginning to think about our return trip, a baby was born in Grand Forks to a very young mother. We’ll never know the full story and we certainly were unaware of the events as they unfolded, but the baby spent a few extra days in the hospital and was released from the hospital into foster care. Grand Forks was pretty much the opposite side of the state from where we lived, and we didn’t go there often.

We hadn’t planned to come home from our study leave and then head off, just a couple of weeks later for a trip to Grand Forks - 425 miles away in the days of 55 mph speed limits. But when the phone call from the adoption agency came, we quickly made the trip and were there to pick up the baby within 24 hours of learning of her.

She became our daughter and one of the deepest blessings of our life.

That was 32 years ago. In that time she has grown up, gone off on her own adventures, gone to college, traveled internationally, gotten married and established her own home. Over the years there have been a few birthdays when we were in different places. We didn’t make it for a face-to-face birthday party when she lived in England for two years, for example.

But this year it is going to work out for us to celebrate with her in her home tomorrow. After the events of today’s church services and church school kickoff picnic, we’ll drive a few miles in that direction and finish the trip tomorrow in time to have a birthday dinner with our daughter and her husband. We’re not driving a 1982 Ford Escort these days. We have air conditioning and the 55 mph speed limit is just a distant memory.

I don’t think I was capable of imagining such an adventure back in the days. I think I was looking forward to the days when we would have our children toilet trained or perhaps first days of school. We had not yet discovered the path our careers would take or the places we would live as a family. We weren’t thinking about college for our kids or who they would marry. All of those events unfolded in their own time and in their own way.

Looking back, it seems as if a lot happened in those 32 years. And they have gone by incredibly quickly. It was, after all, half a lifetime ago when our daughter was born.

But from the first moment I met her, I knew that I couldn’t imagine life without her.

I think I should download “A Chorus Line” to listen to as we travel.

NOTE: As usual when we travel, I don't know fully about Internet access while we are away. I'll still write the blog, but may upload at different times of the day for the next week.

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In some ways the message is simple. I’ve written about it many times in this blog. There are deaths that can’t be prevented. We all age. No one is immune from the effects of time. In the course of time all of us will die. Some deaths are premature. Accidents happen. People make mistakes. A moment’s thought or a different decision can make a big difference. In the midst of this one cause of death is the one that is the most preventable. More lives could be saved by preventing this type of death than any other.

That cause of death is suicide. Death by suicide can be prevented. Studies have proven that Applied Suicide Intervention Skills Training (ASIST) work. When people are trained in suicide first aid, lives are saved. When suicide prevention networks are formed in communities, death by suicide is decreased.

Knowing that many suicides can be prevented, however, has a downside. For those who have lost a loved one to suicide there is a deep sense of the depth of the tragedy. What happened didn’t need to happen. It could have been different. “If I had only known . . .”

The problem is huge and it affects a lot of people. In the United States, more than 39,500 lives are lost to suicide each year. It is estimated that close to a million people attempt suicide annually - that’s an attempt every minute. It is the fourth leading cause of death in the U.S. and the second leading cause of death of teens and young adults. And here in South Dakota, our suicide rate is 2 1/2 times the national average.

Preventing suicide means that we have to talk about a subject that is marked by stigma and one that has been kept quiet in many communities. We are uncomfortable talking about mental illness. We are uncomfortable talking about suicide.

It is, however, a conversation that we must have.

Talking saves lives.

Three days mark the calendar for those of us who work for the prevention of suicide in Rapid City:

World Suicide Prevention Day is September 10 each year.
National Survivors of Suicide Day is the Saturday before Thanksgiving.
Our local “Out of the Darkness” walk is the Saturday before Mother’s Day.

In recent years, we have moved our community observance of National Survivors of Suicide Day from the Saturday before Thanksgiving to the Saturday after World Suicide Prevention Day. We have discovered that the unique grief of survivors and the prevention of suicide are not two separate topics, but intimately related subjects that need to be approached together.

For us, today is the day. I know from experience that the group won’t be large. There’ll be less than 50 of us gathering in the fellowship hall of the church. The day will be part remembrance as we honor the lives lived and remember the loved ones lost. We will tell stories. We will share a service of remembrance.

The day will be part education as we watch the International teleconference report for World Suicide Prevention Day, learning of the latest in research, teaching ourselves the skills we need to continue our work of preventing suicide, discovering how to network for greater effectiveness.

The day will also be about building a community where we are free to talk and express our feelings. We have already decided that we won’t be silent. We won’t bow to the stigma. We will speak openly about loss and grief, but also about hope and the possibility of prevention.

The day isn’t about publicity and press, however. We know that speaking publicly, getting the attention of media, and talking to the general public is important. But we also know that there is a difference between hype and genuine conversation. We know that the messages we need to communicate don’t lend themselves to mass production, but rather are shared person to person in small group settings. For us, in our community, today, getting to know one another and engaging in genuine conversation is more important than mass communication.

It’s been a tough year in our community. Suicide is still on the rise in the hills. 2015 looks to be unfolding as another record year for the number of suicides. Our LOSS (Local Outreach to Survivors of Suicide) team has responded to more suicides than ever. We’ve gone to too many funerals. We long for a break - a change - a decrease.

Suicide is never simple. It is always complex and involves a number of underlying factors. Feelings of pain and hopelessness come from a variety of illnesses and conditions. Some of those illnesses are easily diagnosed and treated. Treatment for clinical depression, for example, is over 85% effective. Some of the underlying causes of pain and hopelessness are more difficult to identify and treat. People go for years without any formal diagnosis and experience a maze of ineffective or less-effective treatments along the way. It is not uncommon for sufferers to self treat with alcohol or other drugs that intensify rather than decrease the problems.

The ease of access to the means of suicide also affects the suicide rate. Because there is a degree of impulsiveness involved in most suicides, especially teen and young adult suicides, having trouble obtaining the means of suicide can help with prevention. The leading means of suicide in our community are firearms, medicines and rope or other items used for strangulation. Worldwide, poisons, including pesticides that are banned in many countries are on the rise as means of suicide. As I wrote before, the issue is complex. There are specific steps that can be taken to make some means less available to those contemplating suicide. Other things are harder to totally remove from the environment.

Like many other complex problems, we know that we do not possess a complete solution. We know that there is more to learn. We know that there is more that can and should be done. We know that we can’t fix all of the problems of the world.

But we can make a difference.

And so we will gather again and again.

It is an investment worthy of the gift of time that we have been given.

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For a brief time one year when I was in college, I toyed with the possibility of becoming a wildfire fighter. My father flew fire patrol for the US Forest Service and Yellowstone National Park for a quarter of a century and we had contact with smokejumpers from time to time. I admired their courage and commitment and thought it might be an exciting thing to do. As I explored the requirements for the job, it became clear that I wasn’t exactly their ideal candidate. I’m not among the tallest of persons. There is no minimum height for smokejumpers, however, as long as you are strong enough to carry a very heavy pack. I wasn’t worried about the pack and the hiking. I’d done lots of hiking and I loved backpacking and I had learned to carry heavy objects working in the feed warehouse and at other jobs. We still handled 100# bags of fertilizer by hand in those days and I could keep up with any of the others who worked in the warehouse unloading and loading trucks. I could not, however, pass the vision test. Although my vision is well corrected by glasses, a smokejumper has to be able to deal with the possibility of losing glasses, not uncommon if one lands in a tree when parachuting into a fire. Without my glasses, my vision is limited enough to make me a liability to a team of hotshots. I didn’t purse the application after I learned that. There were other options for me and I moved on with my life.

I don’t have regrets about the directions I have gone with my life, but the romance of a job in the wilderness still is a bit of a lure for me. I think that it is fairly common for those of us who work daily in intense relationships with others to carry a bit of romance about jobs where one is alone in lonely places. I know I love to go hiking by myself and I paddle alone when I am in safe or familiar waters. I read a lot of stories about those who have spent extended time alone in the wilderness and I admire the sense of adventure and personal resourcefulness that enables them to have their adventures.

I recently was reading about Trevor Thomas who is a solo backcountry hiker. A little over a decade ago, Thomas was diagnosed with a rare eye disease and was told that the result of his condition is that he would lose his sight. The doctors weren’t clear about how long that process would take, but somehow Trevor thought he would have a few years. He had just finished his law degree and was looking forward to getting out of corporate sales and into a profession that would give him more freedom and control of his life.

It only took eight months for him to lose his sight completely. He didn’t have time to try to fill his memory with sights of beautiful sunsets or familiar faces. It all went too quickly. He also didn’t have time to master his new profession in ways that would enable him to practice law. He did master Braille, something that adults find especially challenging without the fine tactile sensations of a child, but he reads much too slowly for the challenges of practicing corporate law. There are other technologies available to assist him, but he needed to find an outlet for his emotions. When he was sighted, he raced downhill on mountain bikes.

Looking for an alternative for a white cane for more rugged terrain he was in a camping goods store one day and ran into a teenager who had just completed a solo hike of the Appalachian Trail. The AT stretches 2,180 miles and crosses 14 states from Georgia to Maine. Trevor decided to solo hike the trail.

He didn’t find much support for his idea. There are bears on the trail. There are plenty of obstacles such as fallen trees. There are multiple opportunities to get lost. There are lots of potentials for serious falls when the trail goes close to cliffs and follows ridge lines. Less than 25% of hikers who attempt to “thru-hike” the trail complete the trek.

Trevor completed the hike in six months and two days.

He continued to hike solo for the next 5 years, including some very remote and challenging locations in the Rocky Mountains, covering over 12,000 miles, some of it with a sighted person, some of it solo.

Then, in 2012, Trevor and a black labrador named Tennille graduated from the Guide Dogs for the Blind school. Tensile was the first guide dog specially trained for long-distance hiking.

“Being alone in the backcountry is terrifying at times and to this day, still can be, but it is also invigorating,” he says. “It is one environment which does not discriminate. It treats me the same as everyone else. It will, also, not take pity on me because I am blind.”

One of my monthly meetings is with the Human Rights committee of Black Hills Works, an institution that provides services for adults with disabilities. I read dozens of support plans at each meeting, looking to make sure they are using the least restrictive means in working wit the persons they serve. I know the stories of hundreds of people in our community who others recognize as disabled. What strikes me each time I am immersed in that particular culture, however, is not the extent of disabilities that are a part of some lives, but rather ho similar we all are. I’m not blind, but I don’t see perfectly, either. I don’t need a wheelchair for mobility, but I can’t do everything I wish I could do.

I know also, from my experience in this life that we are all just one accident or illness away from a permanent disability. It can happen to any of us.

Knowing that it is somehow reassuring to me to know that Trevor and Tennille are out there, somewhere, hiking and demonstrating that limits can be overcome and there are many ways to experience the wonders of Creation. I take pictures of sunrises. Trevor takes in the experience in different ways.

He inspires me to learn to remember more than just the view.

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Sometime when I was a young teen, my mother once said to me, “Don’t eat until you are full, just eat until you are not hungry.” It wasn’t a recurring theme or a conversation that we had many times, just a comment that she made to me in the midst of a teenage eating frenzy. Perhaps she only said it once. I’m not sure about that. But somehow the concept stuck with me.

Part of the reason it stuck is that I am not sure that I ever learned that distinction. I’m not convinced that I know the difference between being “not hungry” and being “full.” I’ve had a tendency to eat a bit more than I need for years. I have to eat very carefully and intentionally to avoid gaining weight. I need to keep aware of my weight and my eating every day or I start to move toward the unhealthy side of the scale very quickly.

I’m not complaining. As challenges go, this is not one of the big ones. There are plenty of people in the world who don’t have the luxury of access to enough food, let alone food in quantities that make them gain excess fat. There are plenty of people in the world who face health challenges far more difficult and far more severe than simply having to refrain from over eating. In the scheme of things, I don’t think I qualify as one of the people in the world who suffers.

But I have been thinking about my eating because I am trying to develop disciplines that result in a healthy lifestyle. My family and my community deserve for me to be a wise steward of my health. I want to make decisions that are in the best long term interests of my family. I want to serve the church faithfully for as many years as is practical. I don’t want my health to become a burden to others in so far as I have control over it.

I know that there is much in health that is beyond my control. I know that I will face illness and recovery in the future. I know that I will not live forever. But to the extent that I am given options, I plan to try to make healthy decisions where possible. Making wise choices about eating seems to be one place where I can exercise some control.

Although that particular quote about eating to overcome hunger, but not eating until one is full was not a common saying in our house, we did hear about hunger on a fairly frequent basis. Our parents talked about hunger when our church had special offerings to help those who were hungry. The coin boxes from church were put in the center of our kitchen table as a reminder. When we might balk at a particular food (“Do I have to eat my Brussels sprouts?”) we were often reminded that there were children in the world who go to bed hungry. We had an aunt and uncle who traveled in India when we were children and so whenever there was a famine anywhere close to India, it was treated as something closer to home than an event on the other side of the globe. Once, when I was in high school, we spent a couple of months disassembling a combine and crating the parts for shipment to the Philippines for use by a mission partner there as a stationary rice combine to help promote local food production in a community where hunger was common.

Somehow I grew up with the impression that hunger is a bad thing. It is something that has to be “fought” and “overcome” and “ended.” We would pray for an end to hunger on a regular basis, though I don’t think we ever truly went hungry as children.

Now, decades later, I think I have it a little bit wrong. Malnutrition is bad. Starvation is an inexcusable blight on a world of abundance. Our inability to share is an evil. But the sensation of hunger isn’t a bad thing. Hunger can be a signal from our bodies, just like pain, that we need to take certain actions. I don’t know why it took me so long, but I’ve finally learned that there are times when being hungry - such as before a special meal shared with family and friends - is a good thing.

I’ve known for decades that I like the sensation of anticipation. I enjoy the seasons of waiting and preparation - Advent and Lent - more than the seasons of fulfillment. Anticipation is a sweet sensation. It feels good. In small doses, hunger can be a form of anticipation of that which is yet to come. In that context, waiting a few minutes longer - and eating a little bit less - might even prolong the sensation.

Knowledge isn’t like food. When you acquire a little bit of knowledge, it is perfectly acceptable to be hungry for more. There is more knowledge and information than any one can consume, and it has a cumulative effect. The more you learn, the more you are able to learn. There is no such thing as learning too much or acquiring too much knowledge. And when you share knowledge, you don’t have any less. It is likely that if I spent more energy learning and less energy eating I would be better in several different aspects.

The problem, of course, is that I can eat and read at the same time, and I often do. I’ll grab a snack and sit down with a book. I’ll take the newspaper or a book to the table with me if I am eating alone. We often learn through the conversations around the dinner table.

And some lessons take a long time to learn. There are things that I and just now discovering that I wonder why it took me so long to get that information.

So, I’m going to share a bit of that information with you today: You don’t have to boil Brussels Sprouts. Roast them. Roasted Brussels Sprouts with a bit of cracked pepper taste good.

I wonder why I didn’t learn that bit of information earlier in my life.

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I grew up around people who weren’t afraid to work. I remember admiring my grandfather, who had a service station. He kept the books and ran the business, estimated how much fuel he would need and ordered it so that it would arrive before he ran out, but late enough that he would have room in his tanks for the truckload. He pumped gas, washed windshields, checked oil, replaced belts and wiper blades and bulbs and chatted with customers. He was competent in the shop, knowing how to diagnose problems, tear down an engine or transmission and get it back together properly. He was an acceptable welder and knew how to make field repairs. But he also was a decent cabinet maker and carpenter. He built his own shop and could tell you how the roof of any building was trussed just by looking at the outside. He did all of the repairs around their home and took care of the yard and garden. After he retired he made rag rugs and did his own car repair.

My dad was like him. He was a pilot and the owner of his own business, but he also was a certified engine and airframe mechanic and did all of the mechanical inspections for the planes in the area. He knew how to fix roofs and design a good building. He designed the trusses for a feed warehouse that spanned the entire building. Those trusses were built out of 2x2’s instead of larger lumber because a truckload of 2x2’s was blown off the road and he bid and won the salvage. That roof is still there today, having withstood 100 mile winds and heavy snow loads. When he went into the farm machinery business, there wasn’t a job in the shop that he couldn’t do. He ran the business. He was its best salesman. He could find parts for a customer and make up a new hydraulic hose if needed. He diagnosed mechanical problems in the shop and directed his diesel mechanics. He would go to work and do repairs for a customer when there was no one else to put on the job. He could drive the truck and run the winch.

When I became a minister, I was careful to avoid the label of the incompetent academic. I know that there are plenty of ministers who know nothing about cars and car repair. We sort of have a reputation about not knowing much about mechanical things and not paying enough attention to building repairs. Ministers sometimes come off as those who are afraid of physical labor and I didn’t want to be that way. In my first parish I got right in there with all of the projects. When we shingled roofs, I was up there with the workers driving nails. When we put new siding on a building, I was there with hammer in my hand. I also helped on area ranches when we visited, showed up for branding and vaccinations, drove a school bus, got involved and got greasy in shops, changed my own oil in my car, mowed the church lawn and shoveled the snow for the church, the parsonage and the neighbors.

I’m older now and am not as capable of physical labor as I once was. I still enjoy hard work, but I get tired a bit more quickly and I don’t change the oil in my vehicles any more. I do a lot of minor home repairs and can paint, but I’m quick to call a plumber or electrician when I need professional skills.

I have learned that there is a relationship between intellectual work and physical work. We humans are body infused with mind infused with spirit and we are at our best when we are attend to our whole beings. We were made to walk and to work. We have great capacities for lifting heavy objects and working the large muscles of our bodies. Physical work stimulates our minds as well. We think better when we are physically active. I have a very comfortable chair at my desk in the church office, but I can tell when I’ve been spending too much time in that chair. Muscles are meant to be stretched and used and exercised.

I think we’ve got it wrong when we afford status to different jobs. Some of the finest people I know do work that others shy away from. There’s no shame in hard work, but there are jobs that don’t give much social status. A few years ago, I dug up the cover of our septic tank and had an extension put on the cover so that it could be more easily serviced. There are lots of rocks in my yard and after a couple of days of digging, I had the septic company bring out their mini excavator to help move some rocks and finish the job. After the placed the heavy concrete extension and new cover on the tank, I took some ice tea out to the workers and we sat in the yard and visited as they drank their beverage and put away their tools. One of the workers was impressed with the amount of hand shoveling I had done and commented on it. Later in the conversation he said, “I don’t mind working for rich people. Sometimes they’re really snooty and rude to us, but I don’t mind. After all, I know that when I drive away I can live without them, but they can’t live without me.”

He’s right. We all need septic workers and garbage truck drivers and the people who fix the potholes in the road and run the street sweepers. We all need laborers and janitors and waitresses.

Vocation - the calling of God - doesn’t distinguish between classes of people. When people are doing God’s work, there is no one job that is better than another, there is no job that is less honorable. Jesus’ disciples argued about status and class and he always dismissed their arguments.

I have deep respect for people who are willing to work and I pray that I will continue to be counted among their number.

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I have several friends who are medical doctors. Most are specialists who have done well with the business of medicine as well as serving people with illness. They are all very intelligent people who have gifts in math and science and possess incisive minds. They are also compassionate individuals who really care about other people. I’m fairly certain that none of them went into the practice of medicine because of a desire to get rich. They may have considered their need to earn a living at the time they were choosing a career path, and it is also possible that they had a desire for the prestige that comes with having an education and being a professional. At the center of the decision to practice medicine, however, each of this doctors was motivated by a desire to help sick people get better. They are motivated by a call to serve other people.

They do, however, operate in an arena where there is a lot of money. All practice medicine in offices that are newer than the span of their careers. The offices of the previous generation, even those built at the end of the 20th century, are simply not large enough and not well-equipped enough to meet the standards of contemporary medical practice. My doctor friends go to work in buildings that have hotel-like lobbies with rows of receptionists and rooms full of clerks who process insurance claims. Their offices are filled with original artwork and undergo regular renovations with the addition of very expensive equipment. State-of-the-art computers are assumed. Sound systems are standard. Access to the latest diagnostic equipment is required. Systems need to always work which means that they tend to replace equipment before it fails and there is a constant pressure to have everything new and shiny all of the time.

Even though their homes are modest in comparison with their offices, my physician friends tend to live in homes that are palatial by neighborhood standards. They are invested in their work and don’t do much home repair. For the most part they hire others to do the painting and remodeling and home repair. And, like the office, they tend to replace appliances before they begin to give trouble.

It isn’t my place to be judgmental of other people, but it does seem to me that the practice of medicine in our country is associated with a huge amount of money.

In stark contrast, there are places where medical care is difficult to obtain and when it is obtained it is definitely less than state-of-the-art. Those places are impoverished communities without access to much money. Half a world away, in Sub-Saharan Africa, there are shortages of all kinds of medical equipment and supplies. According to Doctors Without Borders, an important medicine - an anti-venom for ten different kinds of snake bites - is in critically short supply. They expect to run out all together by the end of next year. There is no company that currently makes the medicine. It has been proven safe and effective and has saved countless lives. The medicine is called Fav-Afrique and the last batch will expire in June, 2016. The manufacturer, Sanofi Pasteur says that it can’t make enough money on the product and has turned its attention and drug producing facilities to making other medicines - ones with higher profit margins.

On the one hand, it is simple capitalism. Supply and demand are not measured in terms of actual need, but rather in terms of the amount of revenue that can be generated. Shortages drive up prices and when the price gets high enough then supplies will increase. Simply stopping production of a needed medicine guarantees higher prices - and higher profits for companies.

In the gap, people will die of snake bites that doctors know how to treat. These are unnecessary deaths, unless you consider the profits of the companies making the medicine to be “necessary.”

The quality of health care available is directly related to the amount of money available. And that brings me back to the beginning of this blog post. In my experience money simply isn’t the primary motivational factor for doctors. They didn’t go into medicine because of the lure of money. The system in which they have to practice medicine, however, is driven by profit. A non-profit hospital generates millions of dollars in profits for all kinds of companies. The hospital may not be making a profit, but their equipment and drug supplies are. Their consultants are. Their contractors are. The insurance companies are. There’s plenty of profit in the health care business in the United States.

The result is that the quality of care obtained by people is directly related to their economic status.

I do not have a solution for this problem. I don’t have a better system to offer. But I do believe that we, as a society, have got to get serious about looking at ways to decrease the amount of profit associated with contemporary medical practice. We probably also will need to be willing to accept a slightly lower level of luxury in the care we receive.

I, for one, don’t have a need for leather armchairs and original artwork int he waiting room. I can live without stunning architecture and multiple-story glassed in entryways at my doctor’s office. Although I haven’t spent much time as a patient in hospitals, I visit them a lot and I’m pretty sure that all private luxury suites aren’t required. In fact, I think healing might be promoted by keeping the motivation to go home a bit higher.

Much harder are decisions that weigh one cost against another. What is a higher priority? Saving lives from venomous snakebites, or extending lives a few days longer with heroic end of life care? Is more good done by investing in vaccines than in transplant technologies? Are more lives saved through clean water systems or dialysis? We face some really tough choices.

In the meantime, I think it is good, from time to time, to remind my physician friends of the reason they went into medicine in the first place. They really are capable of accomplishing a lot of good in the world.

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I like the sounds of the crickets chirping outside of my bedroom window. For me it is a summer sound. Except for a short time of living in an apartment in Chicago, I’ve always lived where one could hear the crickets in the night during part of the year. I know that crickets don’t chirp in the manner of birds. And they don’t sing in the manner of humans. They produce their sound by rubbing the edge of their forewing against a scraper on their body. Most females don’t make the sound and the song has been labeled as a courting song emitted to attract female partners.

The rate of the sound is dependent upon temperature. If you listen carefully, you can tell how warm or cold it is outside. At about 50 degrees the rate is around 60 beats per minute, the same rate as the human heart. Warmer and the crickets speed up. Cooler and they slow down. At 40 degrees, they slow to only 15 beats per minute. Below 40 you probably aren’t going to hear them.

A couple of years ago there was a sound file that circulated on the Internet that was a recording of crickets slowed down. The result sounded a bit like a chorus, with many harmonies layered. Later, it was revealed that the sound clip involved quite a bit of arranging of the sounds to make the harmonies that are so pleasant to human hearing. Still, the basis of the arrangement was the sound of crickets and it was quite nice.

There are plenty of stories of crickets in Japanese and Native American cultures. In both cultures crickets are said to bring good luck, vitality and long life. It is said that if you find a cricket on your hearth, you will have good luck for thousands of years to come. Crickets entering your home is supposed to be a sign of good luck.

It can also make it difficult to sleep. Those critters can be loud. And they always sound better outside of my window than inside of it. Still, out of respect for the tradition and with a sense of obligation to care for all of God’s creatures, I try to avoid killing crickets, even when they come into my home. Spiders, unfortunately, rarely get the same treatment unless they are of a particularly unusual or interesting species. As house guests, they are obligated to live by the house rules, which include: “no spiders allowed.”

So, a couple of nights ago I heard a cricket singing in my library. I knew immediately that the creature was inside. I’d had the door open earlier in the day and I’m sure it just hopped right on in at that time. Armed with a small hand-held strainer that is good for trapping crickets without injuring them, I started to look for the creature. It was on the window ledge above my library table - probably listening to the crickets outside the window.

I needed a plan. Removing the screen to allow the cricket to jump outside is a complex maneuver and I was pretty sure the cricket would choose a new location long before I got that done. It seemed best to use the strainer to trap the cricket on the window sill and then slide a piece of paper under the strainer and transport him out through the door. I prepared my move.

The cricket jumped as I tried to drop the strainer on him. He landed in the garbage can. Good luck already, I thought. I picked up the garbage can to carry it outside where it could be emptied temporarily. It only contained paper, which could be picked up after the cricket returned to his natural home.

The cricket, however, had other ideas and jumped from the garbage can onto the carpet and scurried under the desk. It was dark under there so I had to find a flashlight. By the time I located the cricket, he had crawled under a baseboard heater, where I wouldn’t be able to touch him with the strainer.

I could have brought out the heavy guns. I don’t really mean a gun, only the vacuum cleaner. You suck up the bug and empty the dust container on the compost pile. It works for spiders as well. It may be a bit of a rough ride for the cricket, but I know of others who have survived similar treatment.

By the time I returned with the vacuum cleaner the cricket was nowhere in sight and I was tired so I closed the door and went to bed.

The next morning as I was sitting in my chair, the cricket boldly hopped across the carpet. Not having the strainer, I grabbed a small tupperware container and dropped it over him. Soon a piece of paper was slid under the container and the insect was carefully transported outside where he was allowed to jump away into the grass.

Ever since, I’ve been able to hear the crickets chirping outside of the window, and I imagine my guest to be among those who are sticking close to the house, but have no real way to know which cricket is which.

I’m not sure why I invested the energy in the process. I’m not much for superstition. I don’t really believe in luck per se, though I’ve been the recipient of plenty of good fortune. I’ve never lived where there is a war. I’ve not been the victim of natural disaster. I’ve avoided starvation and the lack of clean drinking water. I’ve had a wonderful family and have not suffered abuse. I guess you could say that I’ve had plenty of good luck. But, for the most part, I don’t think of it as luck. It is just the way things are.

Since I don’t believe in evil spirits, I have no need of charms or crickets trapped in boxes and held against their will to ward of such spirits.

Still, I got a story to tell and a blog subject out of the encounter, which seems to me to be good fortune.

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Even though we have had a record year for moisture and have been very fortunate with fire so far, it is evident that the past couple of weeks of hot weather has dried things out quite a bit. The green year means that fuel loads are high. As the grass turns, the danger of wildfire rises. Fire warnings are beginning to go out and there have been a few small fires around the hills. Meanwhile, many of our firefighters are tired after spending time on the fire lines in Washington and Idaho. One member of our congregation arrived home yesterday after weeks fighting fires. Then, on his way home, his truck broke down, so he flew home yesterday knowing that he has to go back on Friday to pick up the truck. It is the way with fire fighters. Their equipment is large and complex and a holiday weekend isn’t the best time to experience a break down. Hopefully he’ll be able to get some rest and his truck won’t be needed until both he and the truck are safely home next weekend.

The seasons are changing. Although the temperatures have been summer-like, Labor Day weekend signals that fall is on its way. I remember being a school kid and dreading the return of fall, but that sensation was a brief period of my life and for most of my living I have anticipated fall with joy.

I’m not very good at handling the heat of summer. I prefer to head for the high country where the nights are cool when things warm up. I’m relieved to be back to cool nights and the comforts of sleeping with the windows open and the breeze rustling the curtains. I can tell that the days are getting shorter. It was dark when I slid my little boat onto the lake yesterday morning and dark when I slipped into bed in the evening. The shorter and cooler days bring a lot of wonders and I find myself looking forward to autumn with great anticipation.

It’s still too early for most of the real signs of fall, but I’ll be looking and ready when they start to occur.

The turkeys are already showing off their chicks, which don’t look like chicks any more. We’re seeing large groups of turkeys roaming the neighborhood. I know that some neighbors consider the somewhat messy birds to be a nuisance, but I rather enjoy looking at them outside of my window. During the warmest days of summer they seem to hide in the hills, but they make at least two trips through my lawn each day this time of the year, pausing to harvest a few of the insects that live in the grass. I’m never quite sure what they are eating, but they seem to find enough to keep them around and get them to return over and over again.

The birds haven’t begun to gather into flocks for the migration yet, but whenever I hear a few geese squawking as they fly over, I look up and begin to count. When there are too many to count, I’ll know that fall has truly arrived. It isn’t just the geese. I love it when the pinion jays all descend in a group and the yard is filled with the smoky blue birds until the seeds have been harvested from all of the sunflowers in the garden. They’ll have to wait, as the seeds aren’t quite ripe, but soon things will be ready.

Speaking of ready seeds, autumn is the time of harvest bounty. We have fresh crop apples and a few peaches left from our trip to Washington. The gardens are producing tomatoes and peppers and zucchini in abundance. There is fresh sweet corn at the farmer’s market and we’ve got fresh beets, carrots, onions and other root crops ready for the eating. The crabapples in the church yard are beginning to attract the squirrels and turkeys and other critters that love the fall for its easy eating.

The fall rut hasn’t begun, but the deer are just beginning to act a bit strange. We’re seeing the bucks from time to time, strutting through the neighborhood, as if to say that their time is coming. The does will rise up and paw at each other over some unseen conflict and the yearlings are starting to get antsy. We’re seeing the does and fawns in slightly larger groups and a trip to the lake in the morning needs to be accompanied by slower speed and increased awareness of the deer on the road. I like watching the deer once the rut gets going fully. There’s plenty of competition and occasionally we’ll hear the clash of antlers. Mostly we just see a lot of running around and animals that seem to be less aware of humans and our observations than they are during the rest of the year.

Autumn brings plenty of yellow to the hills. When the birch begin to change color, we know it is time for a drive up to the canyon where the oaks grow and the vibrant colors come out for a glorious fall display. That’s probably more than a month away now, but memories of other years combined with an occasional bush that is starting to show a bit of change reminds me of the glory of the season.

Lots of plants put on fall displays as the animals are working hard to put on as much fat as possible in anticipation of winter hibernations and, for those who don’t hibernate, the scramble for survival that is part of the harsh weather.

We are so fortunate to be surrounded by beauty in every season of the year. A bit of dew on a spiderweb, the glory of low sun angles on the water, the increased activity of birds and animals - all of these natural wonders remind me not only of the great beauty of this place, but make me anticipate even more beauty that is on its way.

Fall, glorious fall!

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If you hang out with kayakers long enough, you’re bound to hear someone say, “You paddle a canoe, you wear a kayak.” The saying is meant to describe the difference in how you feel when you slip into a kayak that is tight enough to turn when you turn the lower half of your body and how you feel sitting on the seat of a canoe. There are, however, plenty of canoe paddlers with boats that fit them extremely well, who would take issue with the distinction.

Being both a canoeist and a kayaker, I guess I don’t find much meaning in the saying, either.

I have known a few boats that don’t fit very well. The first canoes that I paddled were old and well used fiberglass boats. They had served in a camp and had not known the best of treatment. When they had been scratched or banged, additional layers of fiberglass had been added. When they got to looking too tacky, additional layers of paint were added. By the time I paddled the boats, they were heavy and no longer well balanced. They still were a lot of fun and they had great potential to teach campers the basics of paddling and when it was my turn, I added layers of fiberglass and paint in an attempt to keep them looking good for the campers.

I also began to let folks know that the camp would sure appreciate a few newer canoes. I brokered the donation of the first plastic canoes obtained by the camp. What a difference these boats were. They were much lighter to carry, they sat higher in the water, they were easier to turn and paddle.

But they were noting like the first woodstrip canoe I built. Even though it is amateurish compared with the boats I now build, it was light weight, nimble, turned easily and could make good speed when paddled. Over the years I have improved the boat by making better seats, adding a thwart, re-doing the gunwales and the like. I also added a sailing rig with mast and boom, lee boards and a rudder. The sailing rig is probably a bit overbuilt and a bit heavy, but it is a nice addition.

The 17’ boat, however, doesn’t really fit me in such a way that I would say that I wear the boat. I do, however, have a couple of canoes that I have made that fit that bill.

Talk to any old time canoeist and you’re likely to hear of a Chestnut Prospector that is revered and beloved. I’ve paddled a couple of the classic wood and canvas canoes and I know why they are so favored. But they also are a in price range that is a bit beyond my reach. So I made a wood strip canoe to the lines of a 16’ Prospector. If a person could only have one boat, this one would be worth considering. It is symmetrical. I usually paddle from the stern seat when paddling tandem and turn the boat around when paddling solo. I prefer to kneel when paddling solo, and have a pad that I lay in the center of the canoe. I get right behind (or forward, if I were going that direction) the center thwart and place a small stuff sack between my knees. I can sit back on the bow seat if I want to stretch out my legs. In that position, the canoe will heel and turn in perfect unison with the lower half of my body. I can reach out with my paddle for a brace stroke or reach under the boat for a deep sweep. The boat has capacity for a huge load of cargo. It will literally haul half a ton - not bad for a vessel that I can carry and lift to the top of a car by myself.

Another canoe that seems to really fit me is my Wee Lassie. At just over 13’ long, it is a great solo canoe. I usually paddle it with a double paddle like a kayak. It is very light weight - lighter than any of may kayaks - and nimble. It displaces very little water, so can be paddled in the shallows. It seems to turn just by my thinking of turning. It doesn’t have too much freeboard, so it doesn’t heel too much, but a simple lean will send the boat into a graceful curve away from an obstacle.

I also have a We-no-nah Recon that is equipped with air bags, a kneeling pedestal, knee pad and braces and foot pads. It is as secure as any kayak in terms of slipping into the boat and feeling one with the vessel.

Fortunately at this point in my life I don’t have to choose between a canoe and a kayak. My first kayak was built to a design by Nick Schade. It is considered to be a beginner’s boat, suitable for learning, for paddling in relatively big water, and also fine for rivers with a little current, but not for rocks or true whitewater. Unlike my whitewater kayak, it has enough room for me to carry a few extras. It is an excellent platform for taking pictures and one of my favorite boats for solo paddling. I’ve paddled that boat in the Pacific and Atlantic coasts of both the U.S. and Canada. It’s been in the Bay of Fundy and the Puget Sound. It’s been in the Missouri and the Yellowstone and in dozens and dozens of lakes.

Perhaps there is something about having a canoe or kayak that makes one want to have another. There is no such thing as a perfect boat. Each boat is a series of compromises. A longer, expedition kayak is great to have if you’re heading for the ocean, but not very useful in many rivers. A beamy kayak is fun for beginners to paddle because it feels so stable, but nearly impossible to roll.

So I’ll keep “wearing” a variety of boats. I don’t change them as often as I change my clothes, so the analogy is also imperfect. No worries. I enjoy paddling even more than I enjoy writing about paddling.

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I had some minor dental surgery yesterday. I guess it is one of the things that happens as you get older. When we are young, we’re given a second chance with our teeth. The old ones fall out and we grow a new set of “adult” teeth. From then on, however, we need to make those teeth last and with lifespans growing longer and longer, our teethe to be in there for the long haul. Some of mine aren’t making the tip and so I have opted for a rather expensive, but very effective plan: dental implants. Although I’m not convinced it was entirely necessary, the choice of the oral surgeon was to perform the procedure under general anesthesia. And I trust the surgeon and made an appointment for a day when I was able to take an entire day off of work.

The sleep, induced by the medicine I was given, was pleasant. The procedure went well and I have had no pain from the operation at all. Other than being very careful with my eating and oral hygiene, the next few months of healing should go very easily and in a few months I’ll have permanent crowns to allow for several more decades of eating.

As I quickly drifted off to sleep and later as I took a nap at home following the procedure, I was thinking of a beautiful place in the mountains south of the town where I grew up. In the high country the river is a raging torrent - not a place to put a boat, even for a very experienced whitewater kayaker. There are very few places where it is possible to wade from one side of the river to the next. In the place of which I was thinking, access is by a dirt and rock road that was carved out of the forest years ago to provide access to mines. Most of the rest of the territory is national forest that borders on wilderness area. I know a place where one can hike just a few minutes from the road and sit on a rock and peer across the river at 1,500 square miles of wilderness spread out into two states. I’ve hiked only a very small portion of that wilderness, but know of its stunning alpine vistas, cold mountain lakes and incredible beauty.

One of the things about the wild country is that it is constantly changing. I’ve been going to that same place and sitting on that same rock since I was a very young boy. There have been years when the fires burned close and the air was clouded with smoke. There have been years when the straight-line winds have downed thousands of trees. Some of the survivor trees grow at funny angles and have strange twists in their trunks. New trees have grown tall. Not far from the rock the beavers are constantly rearranging a series of ponds. I think those beavers have mastered the skill of engineering their ponds for maximum mosquito production. Although it wasn’t there until I reached my early forties, there is now a bridge across the river about a mile downstream from my rock that provides access to the wilderness area for hikers. Few venture more than a few miles on day hikes, but it is possible to walk from there over the divide into Yellowstone National Park. Lake flat, up on top has a series of mountain lakes with thousands of potential campsites for those who are bear smart and good at carrying all that they need.

I guess that place is, for me, a window on heaven. At least it is a place of rest and renewal. And memories of the place are images that I carry with me wherever I go. I can conjure up those images sitting in a dentist’s chair in South Dakota.

I don’t spend much time or energy thinking about heaven. I’m perfectly comfortable trying to live as well as I am able while picking up a few skills that perhaps will allow me to die gracefully when the time comes. I have no doubt that this life is not all there is to God’s realm. But I’m not much for trying to describe what comes next.

The few preachers who I’ve heard trying to expound their theologies of heaven usually end up describing some place that doesn’t sound all that appealing to me, frankly. I’ve no desire to go to a gated community in the sky with guards at the gate who control the comings and going. I don’t think that what God has in store for us is an eternity spent only with people with the same religion as ours.

As for place, it seems as if there is sufficient beauty, healing and grace in the mountains for me. I don’t need some other place outside of this world to experience the infusion of body and spirit that reminds me of how much of creation lies outside of my experience. The valley in which I was born contains enough beauty for me and yet I’ve been allowed to see so much more and know that there is so much more yet to see.

So I don’t think of heaven as a place.

My peaceful anesthesia-induced nap yesterday morning did not require any physical travel for me. I slept in the same chair, in roughly the same position, for the entire time. The place was filled with activity. The surgeon and his assistants were focused and working hard. There were machines to monitor my heart and breathing and tools for the surgeon to place the small pins correctly for healing. I think they had music playing in the background. It wasn’t a place of pine trees and rushing water and birds and steep mountainsides. It isn’t home to deer and bear and elk and moose. There were no beavers or otters or golden trout. The eagles overhead were not seen by those hard at work. But my mind was allowed to drift off to rest and renewal and peace in the midst of all of the activities of the dental surgery.

Where do we go when we die? I do not know the answer to this question. But I don’t think it is the most important question. I am convinced that God is in everyplace and that being with God is enough.

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Photo from the Australian Royal Society for the Prevention of Cruelty to Animals

I really do want this blog to be more than a running commentary on news that is readily available elsewhere. First of all, too much of the news is political and I’m no expert at politics. Secondly, much of news is not aimed at really telling the news at all, but rather at selling advertising. What is reported, especially in US media, is a lot of sensationalism with a whole lot of marketing thrown in. I really don’t want this blog to be about selling anything. I intentionally don’t pay attention to the analytics about where my blog posts show up in internet polls, how many people visit the site, who lingers, etc. I write because I have a need to write. I write to figure out where I fit in this world. I write as a spiritual discipline. And I am glad that there are a few people who read what I write.

I’m a pastor who does some writing on the side, not a writer who does some preaching on the side.

Having said that, occasionally there is something in the news that stirs my imagination. And sometimes these stories are things that didn’t get much media attention, so I’m not sure that my readers have discovered the stories. So, here goes a bit of commentary on today’s news.

It is early spring in Australia. Most of the country has made it through the worst of the winter weather and temperatures are beginning to heat up. In general Australia is a bit more temperate than the United States, so winters are a bit less severe and the difference between summer and winter is a bit less dramatic than we experience. But Australia is a big country and there is a lot of variation from the stormy southern coast of Tasmania and Victoria visited by penguins, to the tropical north.

Of course spring is the season when a young man’s mind turns of course to . . . sheering sheep.

And yesterday, in Australia, a world record was set for sheering a sheep. More than 88 pounds of wool was harvested in a single shearing of a single sheep. Ian Elkins, the Australian national shearing champion was called in urgently to tackle the giant merino which was discovered by a drover after having wandered in the wilderness for several years.

To put that mountain of wool in perspective, where I come from (Big Timber, “The Wool Shipping Capitol of Montana”) an eight pound fleece is about average. 8.8 pounds is considered to be very good. The Australian monster fleece was ten times that amount. I’m not sure but I think that the record for my home county is somewhere in the 20 pound range.

88 pounds of wool from a single sheep. That news caught my attention. I don’t think, however, that it was reported on Fox News, though there has been some speculation on the amount of hair on Donald Trump’s head on that channel. I don’t watch TV, so my facts may be a bit distorted from secondhand reporting.

His name is Chris: the sheep not the Presidential candidate. His fleece was so overgrown that he had to be sedated for his haircut. I don’t think they generally do that for Presidential candidates. Anyway Chris the sheep was sedated. Even with him lying still for the procedure there were a couple of clipper nicks that had to be treated with antibiotics. And, during a careful veterinary examination following the shearing, it was discovered that his hooves were damaged by having to deal with the excessive weight for so long. The procedure was like a very radical diet. More than half of the sheep’s weight was removed in the shearing. Animal welfare officials estimate that Chris was “four to five times its normal size” before the shearing.

Australians, normally competitive souls to begin with, are said to be cheering now that they have recovered the world record from their New Zealand neighbors. The previous world record for a single fleece was a 60 pound fleece shorn in 2004 from Shrek, an animal who had been found after six years on the loose. Like Chris, Shrek was a merino. Unlike Chris, Shrek’s shearing was broadcast on national television in New Zealand.

As I said, I don’t watch television, but I might consider doing so if our television stations broadcast exciting events such as sheep shearing. I’m not planning to hold my breath while I wait.

Our local newspaper’s web site is filled with stories about changes in the demographics of American and especially South Dakota families today. As we expected there is a tendency toward larger families with more children. The print edition has a front page article about Robbinsdale Park and another about a proposed hike in property tax rates (something I pay attention to now that we’ve ben annexed into the city). There is a well-done article about Monsignor O’Connell that I think is front page news. I guess those articles news, though there isn’t much that I didn’t already know in the stories. Somehow the editors of the Rapid City Journal thought those stories were more interesting than a sheep with an 88 pound fleece. One has to wonder about their priorities when selecting front page stories.

I suppose that is why I still have a few readers of this blog. They turn to it for stories that aren’t as heavily reported by television and newspapers. Or maybe they’re just fascinated by the rambling essays of a mind that seems to work a bit differently than the typical consumer of world news.

All of this got me to thinking. I’ve already noticed that when I get my hair and beard trimmed I get comments from people in the church. Sometimes I’ll let it get a bit long, perhaps waiting six weeks between serious trimmings. My beard grows faster than my hair and I’m not producing much hair on top at all these days. I’ve become more adept, in my sixties, at growing eyebrows than was the case earlier in my life. At any rate, when my beard has been long and I get it trimmed, I’m likely to have someone comment to me at church, “Have you been losing weight, pastor?” I take it as a compliment and go on.

It just got me to thinking . . . what if I really grew out my hair until the amount taken off actually did constitute a measurable weight loss?

It’s probably not a good diet plan for me. I don’t think I could produce eight pounds of hair and I know there’s no market for it if I did. I guess I’ll leave the wool production to the sheep. Keep reading my blog, who knows when the world record will next fall. You’ll be able to read about it here.

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I try to avoid either-or distinctions. That kind of polarization is rarely accurate. People don’t divide neatly into camps. Most differences between people take place on a spectrum, not with black-and-white distinctions. And, when we are presented with stark choices, we aren’t always consistent in our choices. Occasionally, however, it can be helpful to see the choices we face in the context of the stories of our people. When we understand choices our forebears have made, there is much to be learned about the choices we face.

The bible is not arranged in chronological order. There was an attempt to do so, starting with the stories of creation and continuing through the historical books, prophets, gospels and epistles. But placing the books in that order means that they are not in the order in which they were written and first were used in worship and other ways by our people. More ancient than the stories of creation, the flood and some other material that begins our bible are the stories of Abraham and Sarah. Their departure from the land of their parents and grandparents was occasion for the beginnings of our people. Their grandson Jacob, wrestling with his conscience - and also with an angel - was given the name Israel. That name stuck as the name of the people and is now the name of a modern political state.

Abraham and Sarah found themselves out in the wilderness, far away from the familiar and far away from their traditional support systems. In a tribal culture where family depended on a large group of relatives, there were always others to provide help in the event of an illness or tragedy. Out in the desert, Abraham and Sarah found that they had to be creators, not inheritors.

Throughout the stories of our people we see the distinction that is frequently a struggle between the desire to build something new and the desire to lean on the work of previous generations. When Moses led the people out of the land of slavery into a new life of freedom, there were plenty of complainers. The security of the old system, even if it involved forced labor, was seen as preferable to life in the wilderness. The sense of entitlement that came with living in the same place and having your role defined was gone when they were on their own having to provide for their own needs.

Later, when they had come into the promised land, the people virtually demanded a king from God. Despite their learning that they were created in the image of God and creators themselves, they longed to be like the neighbors and have a king who inherited power and control. Having for a while left the wilderness behind they sought to develop patterns of inheritance and defined roles in the community. The people got kings with all of the attendant injustices. The prophets called them back into a new way of thinking but it took a series of dramatic setbacks before they remembered who they were.

I was reflecting between these two poles that draw people: creators and inheritors when conversing with someone who was dealing with the business, amidst the grief, of sorting out the estate of parents: “I’m sure other families aren’t like this, but we’re having a lot of conflict over the estate.” My response was that such conflict is way more common than one might imagine. Over the years, I have seen enough as a pastor to know that the process of inheriting is complex and difficult. I’ve witnessed a lot of people acting in ways that are contrary to their own best interest just to grab a piece of what they think they deserve.

There was a time when traditional inheritance customs served the continuation of families. Parents died as their children were launching into their adult lives, the inheritance of material wealth helped to launch businesses and support young children. But life expectancy has gotten a lot longer since those days. Today inheritance comes to most people after they are well established and often at a point where there is little need.

There is, however, a great sense of entitlement: “I just want to get what I deserve.”

What seems obvious to me, however, is that the greatest inheritance from previous generations has nothing to do with money or material value. Attitudes towards work, creativity, problem-solving skills, tenacity, and courage are far more valuable in this uncertain world than wealth. Unlike money, dividing up values and personal qualities does not make for smaller amounts. Two children inheriting a parent’s courage makes for more courage in the world, not less. Compassion and love also increase when shared.

A wise teacher once commented to me that the stories of our Hebrew Scriptures represent an on-going discovery that God’s promise is always about belonging to a people and never about owning a piece of real estate. The people, often, however, become confused and think that the promise is land. The psalmist takes this lesson a step farther: “The earth is the Lord’s and the fullness thereof, the world and those who dwell therein.” (Psalm 24:1) The illusion of owning the land is just that: an illusion. It never has belonged to individuals - it has always belonged to God.

Therein lies a great distinction between creators and inheritors. Creators can own their creation. Inheritors possess their inheritance for a little while only. Perhaps the true purpose of an inheritance is not to possess it, but rather to pass it on to future generations - to continue the investment of previous generations.

It is a complex concept and one that I do not fully understand. And, as I said at the beginning of this blog post, I shy away from dividing people into camps. I’m sure each of us has some tendencies as creators and some as inheritors. There are, however, moments when you have to make a choice: Abraham and Sarah in the wilderness have to choose between going back and becoming inheritors or going forward and becoming creators. Would that I could find the courage to follow their example.

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There is much in this world that I do not understand. This is often the case when I try to understand how others think. This week I have been reading of the destruction of the archeological remains at the ancient city of Palmyra. I’m certainly no archeologist and I don’t know very much about the slow and painstaking process of excavating and revealing ancient architecture. I am often amazed about the things that can be learned about language and culture from the physical evidence of ancient cities.

Palmyra clearly was a very important and unique site. It was recognized as a UNESCO World Heritage site. The monument contains the ruins of a great city. At its height, the city must have been one of the cultural centers of the ancient world. During the 1st and 2nd Centuries, the city was filled with Greco-Roman art and architecture, with Persian influences. The site had more than 500 tombs and more than a thousand columns.

It also was an important tourist attraction, bringing tourism dollars to the area. Before the Syrian conflict, Palmyra was attracting 150,000 tourists each year. During the 17th and 18th centuries, Palmyra was an important pilgrimage destination for Europeans. Visiting the site, located in the the desert near the center of Syria, northeast of Damascus, was said to be a life-changing experience.

Now the ruins are even more ruined. There is less to see. Last week we learned of the bombing of the Temple of Baalshamin, which was a nearly intact building. This morning, BBC is reporting the destruction of the Temple of Bel.

Bombing the site seems to me to be among the most senseless actions that humans could undertake. I simply don’t understand why the IS militants would do such a thing. I understand that history is not the long suit of fundamentalists. They tend to want to have their own version of history, independent from anything that would hold up to independent examination. Perhaps the militants wanted to destroy the buildings so that they could maintain their own myths about history and origins. But it makes no sense to me. History cannot be altered by the actions of the present generation. They have proven that they are capable of destroying buildings of incredible beauty and historical value. They have not been able to destroy history itself. Even after the devastation of the IS bombs, there is much that future generations will be able to learn from the site. Even if the site is completely leveled and no bits of sandstone are left intact, the photographs and video of the site that remain in other parts of the world will survive and last much longer than the current generation of IS leaders.

The destruction of buildings, however, pales in comparison with the destruction of human lives. Earlier this month the group murdered 81-year-0ld Khaled al-Assad, the archaeologist who had looked after the Palmyra ruins for 40 years. I have no idea why they considered him to be a threat. They seem to have no tolerance for those who see the world differently than their own narrow point of view. That death, tragic as it is, pales in comparison to the thousands of other lives that have been destroyed by the senseless violence of the group. In addition to the deaths, the threat of the group is creating a refugee crisis that is impacting the whole of Europe as well as the Middle East. European leaders have been meeting and trying to come up with new solutions to what has become a crisis.

In our world today, reaching a refugee camp is only the first step in a long process of disruption. The average stay in a refugee camp is now 17 years. That’s long enough for children to become adults during their stay in the camps. That’s long enough for elders to come to the end of their lives in the camps. That’s long enough for people to lose hope. The cost in terms of lost productivity and decreased ability to participate fully in the wider communities is devastating. When one considers what could have been, it is heart breaking.

And I haven’t a clue what the militants hope to accomplish by their activities. I simply don’t get the attempt to create a world where those who disagree or who see things from a different point of view have to be destroyed.

So far, the only answer to this senseless destruction has been additional violence. There have been some organized attempts to stop IS militants through military means. One could argue that the use of force has been too little, too late. I’m certainly no military expert. What I do know is that when we target people because of their beliefs, we come perilously close to the kind of thinking that lies behind the militants - identify enemies and destroy them.

The story of the world is clear - whenever the world goes to war some of the enemies are destroyed and the cost of that destruction is the death of innocents. Call is collateral damage. Call it what you might, the death of innocents always produces a backlash of anger and pain and provides fertile ground for a new generation of radical thought and violence. IS would never have grown to the power and world attention that it has if it were not for the refugee camps of previous generations.

No, I don’t understand it. No, I don’t have a solution. No, I don’t have answers.

For now I weep over the loss. We are losing some valuable pieces of our historical heritage. We are losing some important opportunities to study and understand the dynamics of the rise and fall of cultures and civilizations. And we are using a generation of potentially productive citizens and leaders. It is a tragedy of world-wide impact. Some of what has been lost is forever lost and cannot be replaced.

And I wonder if we will ever have a clue why this has occurred.

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