I remember nights when the attic fan pulled cool air across my bed

          Everywhere I turn people are asking, “What happened to springtime?” The usual answer is that we had only a few days of spring this year. The sweltering heat of summer is upon us. And the next cool spell may not show up until November.

          These are days when I battle with family members about the setting of the AC thermostat. I keep raising it and they keep lowering it. The 90-degree heat makes some of us want the house to be a cool 72 degrees. My suggested setting of 75 seems too warm. Air conditioning, I fear, has spoiled a lot of us, especially the younger generation.  

          Two things help me to feel comfortable with a higher thermostat setting. Obviously one is the power bill. It costs money to cool a house in the summertime. It makes sense to save a little by raising the thermostat. When the monthly electric bill comes in during the summer, I wish I had set the thermostat on 80 degrees.

          My memory is the other thing that helps me. In my childhood days the windows of our home had screens. We had no heating and cooling system. We endured the heat by opening the windows and the doors. Back then we had screen doors and we never locked them unless we were away from home for a spell.

          Kerosene lamps provided light at night before REA finally reached us with electricity. In the winter we heated the house by burning wood in several fire places. I recall that one of my earliest chores was cutting wood with an ax and bringing it into the house, large pieces for the fireplaces and smaller pieces for the wood-burning stove that Mamma cooked on.

          During the 1940s Dad decided to rent a Propane Gas tank and install “space heaters” in the house. One was positioned in each fire place, thus retiring the fire place and heating with wood. We felt like we were “moving on up” as a family when we began using those space heaters. We had little awareness of how dangerous they were. Fortunately we never experienced an accident with the heaters.

          Years later Dad removed the space heaters and replaced them with much more efficient and less dangerous electric heaters. They did the job until finally they too were replaced by an air conditioning system that used duct work to cool the whole house.

          When electricity became available in the mid-thirties Dad and Mom used small electric fans, usually one in each room. They were helpful but not as nice the larger window fans we secured later. The fans did not cool the air but they did move it. Moving the air provided us a bit of an indoor breeze that helped us endure the heat. They were cheap fans and the coil would burn out frequently. That left us nothing to do but sweat until we could go into town on Saturday and buy a replacement.

          Dad  finally got up the money to buy a large electric attic fan. He installed it in the hall in the center of the house. What a blessing the fan was during the summer!  All of our beds were beside a window. At night we opened the window slightly, about five or six inches. The powerful attic fan would suck the air across your bed and allow you to sleep in heavenly comfort.

That was our first air conditioning “system.” As the temperature dropped at night the air coming across our bed became cooler. By midnight we might have pulled a sheet up over us but never a bedspread. During those attic fan days we felt we were “up town;” we were really living. Never having heard of air conditioning we had no reason to feel deprived.

          In this age of “entitlements” some people may feel they are “entitled” to cool air at someone else’s expense. Those who think like that are badly mistaken. Cool air is a luxury which millions of people cannot afford. We who enjoy it should not take it for granted. Remembering what life was like in “the good old days” can inspire an attitude of gratitude.

          There are more important issues of life than the room temperature. We should not allow minor issues to become major. That I try to remember when I find the thermostat turned down so low that if my Dad were still alive, he would say “It feels like hog-killing time in here!” + + +

         

         

         

Stop whining and smell the fragrance of the broken

          Recently I read again about the accidental death of Maria Sue, the five-year-old daughter of Steven Curtis and Mary Beth Chapman. That tragedy reminded me of a profound idea I had gleaned from an earlier story about this popular Christian singer.

          The idea was capsulated in the phrase, “The fragrance of the broken.” The words came to Chapman during a walk in the woods. He had gone into the woods to pray, desperate for release from a drought in his soul. Pleading with God for a breakthrough, he gathered some rocks, stacked them into a makeshift altar, and began to pray.

While praying he began to smell cedar, so strongly that it distracted him from praying. Opening his eyes he soon spotted a little cedar tree that he had snapped in half by stepping on it. The broken tree was the source of the smell that Chapman felt was a sign from God. Quickly he wrote down the words, "The fragrance of the broken."

God does provide a "fragrance" that we may learn to cherish as we wrestle with our brokenness and that of our loved ones. Like the little cedar tree, it may not be easily recognizable.  We have to look for it as Chapman did. Finding it, we begin to enjoy what may be called the "aroma of grace."

Each of us must learn to handle brokenness of one kind or another. How we deal with it determines whether we live well or merely endure life until it ends. Misfortune can make us better or bitter. The good thing is that we have a choice.

         My friend "Miss Jimmy" was a poet. In retirement she became legally blind. But she declined to complain. Instead she chose to think of her blindness as a blessing. “There is so much I would have missed had my sight not failed,” she said.

 “I had not bothered to read the Bible very much," she told me, "but when I became blind, I began to listen to the Bible on cassette tapes. Only then did I understand why it really is the greatest book every written." My wife and I enjoyed tea with Miss Jimmy many times. While we admired her poetry we admired her spirit even more. She was not a whiner.

Fanny Crosby and George Matheson were blind hymn writers but refused to complain about their blindness. Both composed beautiful songs which millions still enjoy singing. They refused to let their brokenness "blind" them to their opportunity to live useful lives.

Alabama’s famous Helen Keller became blind and deaf as a young child. Her attitude was profoundly inspiring. She regarded her handicaps as “mere impertinences of fate.” She said, “I resolved that they should not crush or dwarf my soul, but rather be made to blossom, like Aaron's rod, with flowers.” Can you say “Wow”?
         A good friend made a trip out west one summer. He and his wife drove their motor home through Montana, Wyoming, Arizona, and California to see the sights. He explained why, "I had been diagnosed with an eye disease which could result in blindness in a few years. I wanted to see all that I could see while my vision was still good."

He could have stayed home fretting about the question, "Why is this happeningto me?" Without complaining he began to adjust to the possibility of brokenness. Instead of whining he used his time to design a plan to cope with blindness if it happened.

Brokenness comes soon or late to us all. Whining about it, or asking "Why me?" gets us nowhere. Pain is inevitable but misery is a choice. As we face the pain with honesty and hope, something wonderful can occur. Character can happen. We can become finer people because we have faced our troubles with courage. Courage is contagious. Deal with your brokenness bravely, with a positive spirit, and your example is bound to encourage someone else.

Thankfully you have a choice. You can refuse to whine. You can find a way to smell the "aroma of grace" in your pain. Then the fragrance of your brokenness becomes a sweet perfume to all who savor the essence of your life. + + +

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Forgive Me but I Do Not Want to Die in a Hospital

          Watching an older person or an older couple break up house-keeping is never easy for me. It hurts to see people uprooted from their home and placed in a nursing home even when that seems the best thing to do.

          Of course something has to be done when people get so old they can no longer take care of themselves. I just wish there was some gentler, kinder way to forcefully remove people from their home and put them in an institution. Only rarely can families find a way to allow aged parents to live in their own home until their death.

          Most of us feel about home like my friend Mary does. I asked her one day if she given any thought to moving into one of the lovely “assisted living” homes in her city. Instantly she replied, “No sir; I will never leave my home until they carry me out with my toes turned up!”

          Like Mary I want to live in my present home until I die. I do not want to die in a hospital. Hospitals are a blessing, especially in America. Nurses and doctors for the most part are wonderful. I love to hear one of them speak of their work as a “calling” from God. Surely it is. But I do not want to die hooked up by needles to four machines whose beeping signals go unnoticed by busy nurses down the hall.  

          Home has always been important to me. I was born in a home my father built with his own hands. I lived in that home until I left for college at age 18. Our son Steve and his family live in that home today; he remodeled it after my parents died. They lived in it until their death.

          Most preachers live in many houses during their ministry. My wife and I lived in more than twenty different homes during our pastoral service. Wanting during those years to have a place called “home,” we built a cabin near my dad’s place in 1960. The cabin finally became our home, and we have been remodeling it now for 52 years.

          Those of us who have a home should not take it for granted. I remind myself often to give thanks for our home. Millions of people have no home. There may be as many as one billion people in the world today who are homeless. There are more than three million homeless people in the United States, although that number is declining.

          Over the years I have visited hundreds of people in nursing homes. Without a doubt the most frequent comment made to me by nursing home residents is simply this, “I want to go home” or “Please take me home.” I would not want to live in a country that did not provide senior housing like nursing homes and assisted living homes. And we have some truly wonderful nursing homes in America. I deeply respect and admire the dedicated people who maintain and serve in our nursing homes.

          But there is evidently an innate desire in the human heart for home.

If we are not at home, we want to go home. The old saying, “There is no place like home,” has been uttered many times by anyone who has ever had a home. Perhaps God planted the desire for home in our hearts. There is a sense in which God Himself is “home.” So the human spirit is restless until it finds its way home to God.

          One of my favorite songs is “Going Home.” It touches deep places in my heart. In these days I am profoundly thankful for the home where I hope to live until I die. But the songwriter expresses feelings that I share about the home where I am going when my traveling days are done. You may like it too:

          Going home, going home, I’m just going home. Quiet light, some still day, I’m just going home. It’s not far, just close by, through an open door. Work all done, care laid by, going to fear no more. Mother’s there expecting me, Father’s waiting, too. Lots of folk gathered there, all the friends I knew. Nothing’s lost, all’s gain. No more fret nor pain. No more stumbling on the way. No more longing for the day. Going to roam no more. Morning star lights the way, restless dreams all done. Shadows gone, break of day. Real life begun.

        That is a wonderful thought: Real life begins when we get home! + + + 

         

Forgiveness sets us free from bondage to the past

Cut loose from your past and enjoy being forgiven  

A backward look can be helpful or it can be depressing. It depends on how you view the past. You can recall that in the “good old days” life was lived at a slower pace. People were seldom stressed out from living in “the fast lane.” How nice life was back then.

The danger is that we tend to romanticize the past and paint too rosy a picture of the days of yore. Was life really better in the days of our parents? In many ways life was worse not better for past generations. Some of our parents, for example, used an “outhouse” because there was no toilet in their home. Many of our relatives did not even know a family that had an indoor toilet.

When it comes to our mistakes, a look at our past sometimes can be paralyzing. Some of us feel much guilt about wrong things we did when we were younger. We are ashamed to admit how foolish we once were. A just God will surely not forgive us. What we did was too bad for God to forgive.

To think like this puts us in bondage to the past. This bondage binds us to our mistakes or what the church calls our “sin.” So we are not free to enjoy life today. Guilt blocks us from inhaling the pure joy of knowing that we are alive by the pleasure of the God who not only made us but also loves us.    

Christians have the unique privilege of helping people find forgiveness for the past. Forgiveness frees us from the past and helps us overcome guilt. It puts a song in our hearts and when we start singing we begin to soar, like a kite free to enjoy the wind.

The church calls this forgiveness “good news.” It is indeed good news to discover that your sins are forgiven whether by God or by another person with whom you have been estranged. “I forgive you” are three of the sweetest words any of us can ever hear.

That is the message the church has for the world: God forgives you. Such news is not only good news; it is the best news the human mind can ever embrace. It is so wonderful that people often find it impossible to believe that God has forgiven them. So it helps to hear the amazing words, “Your sins are forgiven,” spoken by a caring friend who has personally experienced this forgiveness. Then hearing and believing that good news can become a liberating moment for the person who accepts it.  

You may be wondering how the Bible fits into all this. Well, the Bible in one sense is the “good news” Book. From Genesis to Revelation there are people much like us who are warning people to stop doing wrong and turn to God. Why? Because God loves them and has forgiven them. The world says, “What is the proof that this is true?” The Bible says, “The proof is God’s gift of his son to die on the cross for our sins.”

The people in the Bible were ordinary people God used in extraordinary ways. Today he wants to use ordinary people like us to help guilt-ridden people understand they are forgiven. We have good news for people in bondage. If they believe they are forgiven, they can be cut loose from the past and enjoy the sheer thrill of being loved and forgiven.

I will bet my last dollar that you know some troubled person who needs to hear this good news. And it might make your day if they heard it from your lips. Sharing it could be like offering a cook drink of water to someone dying of thirst.

After all, Ezekiel, Jeremiah, and Zechariah – all those guys are gone. They had their turn. Now you and I are up to bat. + + +

Keep Christmas!

Keep Christmas!

Message for Christmas Day, Saint James UM Church, 2011

When l look back in history I think of people I wish I could have known. I wish I had known Walter the Shepherd. One of those shepherds had to be named Walter. Walter is an ordinary name and the shepherds were ordinary, common people like me and you. I would have asked him to tell me again what it was like when that angel suddenly appeared and scared the daylights out of him.

    I wish I had known Luke, the good doctor. It was Luke who took his pen and wrote down the immortal story of those shepherds in the fields near Bethlehem. I would have asked Luke if knew Walter the Shepherd. I bet it was Walter who told Luke about that night when the angels inspired them to go to Bethlehem and find the baby boy born in a manger.

    I wish I had known John, the beloved disciple. I would have asked him what it was like to stand near the cross upon which Jesus died and hear him cry, “Father, forgive them for they know not what they do.” I think he would have said, “Walter, I still cannot talk about that moment.” And I would have thanked John for penning what may be the most magnificent 28 words in the New Testament: “And the Word became flesh and dwelt among us, full of grace and truth; we have beheld his glory, glory as of the only Son from the Father” (John 1:14).

    In more recent times I wish I had known Henry Van Dyke, the Presbyterian minister born in Germantown, PA in 1852. You may have read some of Van Dyke’s stories. He wrote The Other Wise Man and The First Christmas Tree.  He also wrote my wife’s favorite hymn that we sing to the tune of Beethoven’s Ode to Joy. You remember it goes like this, “Joyful, joyful, we adore thee, God of glory, Lord of love; hearts unfold like flowers before thee, opening to the sun above. Melt the clouds of sin and sadness; drive the dark of doubt away. Giver of immortal gladness, fill us with the light of day!” What beautiful words! What a beautiful song!

    But what I would really like to thank Henry for is the wonderful piece he wrote titled “Keeping Christmas.” It is only about 100 years old but it has become a Christmas classic. I try to read it every Christmas because it speaks to my heart. You remember he says that keeping Christmas is more important than the observance of Christmas. He says if you can forget what you have done for others and give thanks for what others have done for you, then you can keep Christmas. He says if are willing to stoop down and care about the needs and desires of little children, then you can keep Christmas. And I like this part: if you can remember the loneliness of the people who are growing old, then you can keep Christmas.  

    I am especially touched by Van Dyke’s idea that we need to make a grave for our ugly thoughts and a garden for our kindly feelings. I need to do that. We all need to do that. And if we do it, then we will be keeping Christmas all year long.

    Well, the truth is I have no way of getting to know Walter the Shepherd, or Luke the Doctor, or John the beloved Disciple, or Henry van Dyke the writer. But the good news is I can get to know Jesus! He is alive! He is here! He is Emmanuel, our God who is with us! I know he is here because just this morning I heard him say to me, “Walter, come to me and I will give you rest.” I went to him on bended knees and confessed my sins to him. I heard him say, “Your sins are forgiven, Walter; now rise, and follow me!” That is what I intend to do for the rest of my life. Will you go with me? We can follow Him as a church. We can follow him as families. We can follow him as individuals. And we can enjoy the journey together! Hallelujah! Glory! Amen. + + +

       

Can you imagine how proud I am? Hannah's Dad is my son!

Our son Tim turned 50 last Sunday. As a son he has been a joy to our hearts. His Mom and I are so proud of him. Tears spilled down my cheeks when I read what his daughter Hannah wrote about her Dad in her blog. I had to share it so here it is. May it inspire some reader to pay the price of becoming the kind of Dad his children can love and admire. 

                                         My Dad

                                                       

                                By Hannah Albritton

There are so many things I could write about my dad, I don’t even know where to start! My dad and I have always had a very special relationship. Growing up, my dad and I did many things together. But dad made sure it wasn’t just things he wanted to do. He has always made an effort to show interest in and support the things I love. I have tried to do the same with the things he loves, one of those things being hunting. I remember the first time my dad took me hunting. My mom, being the “worry wart” that she is, did not want me to freeze out in the cold and, in turn, piled on the clothes. I had on more layers than Aunt Sherri’s 7 layer salad! It was all I could do to breathe, much less walk. I couldn’t even talk because of the scarves and hats. Dad walked in the room, ready to go, and I just stood there with tears streaming down my face. Then, mom decided to peel a few layers off so I didn’t look so much like the Michelin man. So, hunting isn’t exactly my thing, but I had, and still have, a great time just being with my dad. The most recent hunting trip my dad and I took last season was also a memorable one. Not because we got a big buck, but rather, a big laugh. It was just dad and me on this occasion. I tried to convince my sister, Sarah, to go but she had already gotten a deer and insisted that it was my turn. So off we went into the woods. Dad and I had been sitting in the shooting house for about an hour. Just sitting, waiting and watching. The sun was setting and it was starting to get a little darker. Everything was quiet when, all of a sudden, this bird flew into the shooting house through the small opening right behind my head. Well, of course, I screamed and commenced to flailing and flapping my arms all around until the bird flew back out. Dad looked over at me like I’d lost my mind, and with an alarmed expression, I replied, “A bird just flew in here!” Well, I didn’t really know if he was going to be mad or not, but when he burst out in laughter, we both just sat there and laughed. Needless to say, after all the commotion, we didn’t see very much wildlife, but Dad didn’t seem to mind. 

One example of Dad making an effort to do things that I enjoy would be our annual trip to the Holiday Market. I can remember Dad checking me out of kindergarten early to take me to the Holiday Market in Montgomery. I thought it was the coolest thing to get out of nap time to go shopping with Dad. My dad is NOT a shopper and isn’t the type to go shopping with mom for clothes or groceries or anything! But when dad took me to the Holiday Market, just us two, it made me feel more special than I’m sure he ever imaged. We have gone to the Holiday Market every year since, and I feel so proud and special walking around a civic center full of ladies with my dad.

Another example is when I started to bake and sell “Hannah Banana Bread.” I was about eleven or twelve years old when I began baking banana bread. My dad helped me print labels to put on them that said, “Hannah Banana Bread” and helped me by selling them to the secretaries at his office. He encouraged my hard work and one time asked me to bake banana bread at church for one of the meetings he was chairing. I brought all my ingredients to the church, mixed everything up and put it in the oven to bake during the first half of the meeting. When I took the bread out, it looked perfect, but I cut into it and it was runny mush. The ovens at the church were much different than mine and it cooked the bread too fast. I was so upset and began crying when dad came into the kitchen to see if the bread was ready (I really don’t cry that often!). He was nothing but compassionate and understanding. I was afraid he would be frustrated that he didn’t have anything to serve at the meeting, but he assured me that it was no big deal. After the meeting, he took me to the mall to a music store and we each bought a CD. I remember buying an Alan Jackson CD. Dad and I deemed “Living on Love” by Alan Jackson our song a long time ago. I’m not sure exactly why or when we decided it would be our song, but every time I hear it, I think of my Dad.

I could go on and on with stories about my dad and me, but there simply isn’t enough room to do so.  It’s so cliché, but it really is the little things that mean the most. The little things that my dad has done, and continues to do, make him a great father and role model. When he shows up at my work to bring me lunch or just to say “hey,” or the little notes he leaves for me, or when he sends me a postcard, even though I live with him, or when he takes the time to talk to me or listen when I need to talk, or when he comes to a midget ballgame to see me coach a bunch of little cheerleaders for twenty minutes, or when he calls me sugar and tells me he loves me every night and I know that he really means it with all of his heart.

Two of my dad’s favorite heroes, I guess you would say, are John Wayne and Robert E. Lee. My dad reminds me of both of these men. Like Robert E. Lee, my dad is wise, courageous, loyal and a true gentleman. Like John Wayne, he is strong, blunt, stern, and he definitely has grit! But the most important trait found in my dad will outlast all the good times, memories and other honorable attributes. He is the godliest man I know. I don’t know many people who can say that about their father, but my dad lives the life of a true follower of Jesus Christ. When someone talks about seeing Jesus lived out in someone’s life, that’s my dad. Of course he has flaws, as does everyone, but in everything he does, he genuinely seeks to follow the Lord. He aims to honor the Lord in everything he says and does. Every morning, when I see his pen, journal and Bible on the table where he had his devotions a few hours before, I am reminded of the great man that I am so privileged to be able to call my dad. - @