2 Corinthians 4:7
"But we have this treasure in clay jars, so that it may be made clear that this extraordinary power belongs to God and does not come from us."
Cups have been a fetish in my life for many years. Early on I began collecting cups. It may have been because I dropped or broke so many that I had the need to replace what I had lost. Known as a habitual coffee drinker at school, a student once remarked, “Mr. McCabe, you must really like coffee.”
Jokingly, I replied, “Actually, it is the cups I like.” In reflection, it may not have been that much of a joke.
I have been following a devotional program, The Cup of Our Life,* by Joyce Rupp that uses a cup as a metaphor for our relationship with God and the world. In a section on readiness to receive, she writes that it is not until the cup is emptied that it is ready to be filled. Each of us has experienced emptiness in our lives. At times that experience is so tragic that we cannot imagine our lives ever being fulfilled again. She writes, “When we cannot stand on our own strength, when we do not have the inner resources we normally have, we are being readied to receive.”
I know a former school principal, Cliff Zehr, who was seldom seen without a cup of coffee. He daily walked about the school and through classrooms greeting staff and students, asking what they needed and how he could help. He always seemed to have enough time for everyone during what I know was a jam-packed schedule. He never hurried; he couldn’t, or he would have been constantly spilling coffee. What for many is a necessary stimulant to starting their day was to him a calming mediator of the frenetic life of school. I know I can’t blame my coffee habit on Cliff, but I do think he was the role model for my moving about with a cup in my hand. I began to learn to slow down and to be patient. Often I pick up a cup that is nearly empty and carry it with me just for the effect it has on me.
I am learning it is this near-empty cup that symbolizes my readiness to listen, to hear God, to serve and to love Him. A newly poured cup of coffee is never completely full, and it is only nearly full for the briefest of time. Again from Joyce Rupp, “Emptiness is a gift that opens us further to the transforming power of God.” In our search for fulfillment we need to embrace the love gift of emptiness that leads to fulfillment. We need to remember that our lives and our love runneth over with empty cups.
* Rupp, J. (1997). The cup of our life. Notre Dame, IN. Ave Maria Press.
“My Love Runneth Over with Cups”
Copyright © 2010 Michael J. McCabe
All Rights Reserved
Tuesday, August 31, 2010
Monday, August 30, 2010
The Picnic-Kitchen Table
We just purchased our first house and were about to move. We were pregnant with our first son, Doug, and we would be losing a salary. It was the winter of ‘68, and I was making under $7500 as a junior high school civics teacher. We had rushed to buy a house while we could qualify. Our meager savings had gone into the down payment. The house cost $16,500, a pittance by today’s standards, but it seemed enormous then. We were nearly broke, and had not yet bought furniture. We lived in a one-bedroom apartment, and wondered aloud if we would be moving into a half-empty house. We had a bed and dresser, a couch, and a couple of old chairs for the living room, but no furniture for the baby, the guest bedroom, or the kitchen.
With the help of our families and friends we acquired a crib and the related paraphernalia to hosting the soon-to-be baby Doug. We still needed a kitchen table. We looked in new and used furniture stores, antique shops, flea markets, and even the Salvation Army store. We found everything but kitchen tables, or at least one that we could afford on our budget of $25. Finally, we found a true bargain at a pool and patio store, a red wood picnic table with two benches for $19.95. It seated six without buying chairs. It was perfect, and we knew it would work for us for a year or so, or until we could find a more suitable and permanent replacement.
“The best laid plans…” That picnic table with numerous transformations was still in our kitchen fifteen years later. I varnished it and later stripped it, painted it green, later white, and eventually glued and varnished a top to it. Before it got its new top, glasses of milk, soda, iced tea, and lemonade too numerous to count dripped through the cracks of its cross slat construction. Equally disastrous was the occasional adult beverage or coffee spill wending its path of least resistance to the floor below.
On a rainy day in March, we sat there for Doug’s first birthday party, a picnic scheduled for the back yard. Four-year old Drew colored all the Easter eggs there one morning before the rest of us awakened. Friends gathered for meals, drinks, dessert and coffee, or just for the conversation, first on those butt-breaking benches and later on equally demanding wooden folding chairs. The benches eventually were ushered to the back yard. The chairs just wore out, once with our friend Wayne nearly skewered in the process; but the table endured.
I tapped out my first book at that table on an old manual typewriter from our college years. That was “B.C.,” before computers. What once had been just a picnic-kitchen table had become a picnic-kitchen-table-desk. By the time I was onto my second book, I had a computer, and the table had found its way to the patio. That table was the altar at which grace was shared and the forum for nightly discussions of a decade of school days. It was the family gathering place under which Cindy, our retriever, served as a furry foot warmer and automatic vacuum cleaner.
I suspect that many of us have similar kitchen table memories. We pay our bills there, watch sports or the evening news, agonize over our 1040s, play games, and assemble puzzles. As parents, we sit there over cold coffee anxiously waiting for our sons and daughters to return home from their first time out with the car or high school proms. If our kitchen tables could talk, they would relate the joys and pains of our common memories etched into the grain of their surfaces. Nevertheless, they remain silent, and alas, in its silence our picnic-kitchen-table-desk finally found its way to the humility of the garage sale. I miss it and all of what it reminds me.
“The Picnic Kitchen Table”
Copyright 2010 © Michael J. McCabe
All rights reserved.
With the help of our families and friends we acquired a crib and the related paraphernalia to hosting the soon-to-be baby Doug. We still needed a kitchen table. We looked in new and used furniture stores, antique shops, flea markets, and even the Salvation Army store. We found everything but kitchen tables, or at least one that we could afford on our budget of $25. Finally, we found a true bargain at a pool and patio store, a red wood picnic table with two benches for $19.95. It seated six without buying chairs. It was perfect, and we knew it would work for us for a year or so, or until we could find a more suitable and permanent replacement.
“The best laid plans…” That picnic table with numerous transformations was still in our kitchen fifteen years later. I varnished it and later stripped it, painted it green, later white, and eventually glued and varnished a top to it. Before it got its new top, glasses of milk, soda, iced tea, and lemonade too numerous to count dripped through the cracks of its cross slat construction. Equally disastrous was the occasional adult beverage or coffee spill wending its path of least resistance to the floor below.
On a rainy day in March, we sat there for Doug’s first birthday party, a picnic scheduled for the back yard. Four-year old Drew colored all the Easter eggs there one morning before the rest of us awakened. Friends gathered for meals, drinks, dessert and coffee, or just for the conversation, first on those butt-breaking benches and later on equally demanding wooden folding chairs. The benches eventually were ushered to the back yard. The chairs just wore out, once with our friend Wayne nearly skewered in the process; but the table endured.
I tapped out my first book at that table on an old manual typewriter from our college years. That was “B.C.,” before computers. What once had been just a picnic-kitchen table had become a picnic-kitchen-table-desk. By the time I was onto my second book, I had a computer, and the table had found its way to the patio. That table was the altar at which grace was shared and the forum for nightly discussions of a decade of school days. It was the family gathering place under which Cindy, our retriever, served as a furry foot warmer and automatic vacuum cleaner.
I suspect that many of us have similar kitchen table memories. We pay our bills there, watch sports or the evening news, agonize over our 1040s, play games, and assemble puzzles. As parents, we sit there over cold coffee anxiously waiting for our sons and daughters to return home from their first time out with the car or high school proms. If our kitchen tables could talk, they would relate the joys and pains of our common memories etched into the grain of their surfaces. Nevertheless, they remain silent, and alas, in its silence our picnic-kitchen-table-desk finally found its way to the humility of the garage sale. I miss it and all of what it reminds me.
“The Picnic Kitchen Table”
Copyright 2010 © Michael J. McCabe
All rights reserved.
An Illusion of Coincidence
I returned to Iowa for a weekend in July just months after my wife’s death. It was one of those rare mild weekends that Midwesterners appreciate during hot, humid summers. I had gone to see her mother, connect with family and friends, and to select a stone for Cathy’s grave. The trip was fraught with conflicting emotions. I was glad to be there with Cathy’s mother, Gayle, yet memories appeared around every corner and each bend in the road.
That weekend, I had occasion to attend two “country” experiences. The blue grass concert Saturday night in Pattonsburg, Missouri, was to be treasured. The quality of the music was equaled only by the quality of the pie served. The next morning, we went with an aunt and uncle to the Broadhorn country church at the edge of a cornfield seemingly in the middle of nowhere. It was a unique experience for a city guy reared in a Pennsylvania coal-mining town. I appreciated the sheer simplicity and energy of the service and remained to talk with one of the older members about the origin of the church. Cathy’s aunt Joy introduced me to the organist who had recently lost her husband. We shared a brief conversation and a common bond. She handed me a small religious tract on death and grieving. I tucked it in my back pocket, and later back at the house tossed it unread into my case.
The following day I left for Kansas City to fly back to Phoenix. I arrived early and had a few hours before the scheduled departure. I read the newspaper, began a novel, and practiced the timeworn craft of people watching. The clock crawled through the minutes, and I used the time to edit a poem that was vexing me. Rummaging through my case for my journal, I found the booklet. I began to read a different view on my status. Whether it was fatigue or just the omni-presence of emotions in my grieving, I was driven back to a grief experience fifty years earlier.
My family lived in a nice house a few miles outside of a town in central Pennsylvania. It was a great place to grow up. I roamed the fields and forest with my only kid neighbor, Johnny, and our beagles Captain and Blackie. The dogs were cousins and seemed to be as good friends as were Johnny and I. We lived the carefree lives of young boys with idle hours on sultry summer days.
My childhood Eden ended when my parents took my brother and me into town to see a dilapidated duplex on a street of row houses. I learned that we were soon to move there. I was devastated. I did not want to move into town much less into that dungeon of a house. However, at ten, it was not my choice, and I must confess, my mother turned it into a beautiful home for which I have fond memories. The one compromise was that I could take Captain with me. I was little prepared for the experiences that would arise out of that decision.
The house sat on a corner just six doors from a church. Used to running freely, the confines of the house were stressful to Captain. Not since he wore a cast on a broken hind leg as a puppy had he been so constrained. The only thing worse for him than being housebound was the peal of the bell at St. Peter and Paul’s. Captain’s baying rivaled an English foxhunt. Whether in pain, joy, or simple response, he would howl during and beyond each carillon. Unfortunately, the bell rang regularly calling the parish to mass. Our popularity as newcomers rapidly waned, and requests turned to complaints. Captain was exiled to the country to rejoin his cousin. My one concession had vanished.
A tan cocker Spaniel puppy assuaged my sadness when it appeared on my next birthday. He was the perfect dog for a small boy in a small house. Perfect, until the day he ran out onto Maple Street, and was hit by a car driven by a local minister, Reverend David Wilkerson, who traveled the street regularly. Buffy was dead. Frustration, guilt, and anger flooded my mind. I was frustrated because I did not know what to do. I felt the guilt of allowing him to run into the street, but I was angry with the Reverend. My memory is that he was more concerned with his car than the death of a puppy or the feelings of a youngster. I remember him walking around the car looking for damage. I remember him lashing out at me for letting the dog loose. I remember my anger when he blamed me.
Later that day, my dad and I buried Buffy in the forest, the process of healing the grief began, and eventually only the anger remained. Whether the memories of that day were the reality or not they lingered as the source of a fifty-year resentment toward the Reverend. For a while, I casually followed his career. I read his book, The Cross and the Switchblade, which was later made into a movie. I heard once that he moved to the Mid-west to begin an evangelistic ministry, but eventually I lost track of him, and he faded from my memory. He had not been a presence in my life, but fifty years later here I was, sitting at KCI, and my mind had transported me in time to a vivid memory and a simmering anger. I realized that all these years had passed and I had not forgiven a man, who seemingly just by coincidence was caught in what to a small boy was egregious behavior.
My mind returned to the present, and I began reading again. “No matter how much pain and suffering wrack these mortal bodies, none of it is worthy of the comparison to the unspeakable glory that awaits those who endure the passage.” Though the perspective was not from my religious frame of reference, the thoughts expressed were comforting. The booklet ended with a prayer including, “Most of all, deliver me from the bondage of the fear of death.” As I finished, a woman’s metallic voice announced that my plane would begin boarding in a few minutes. I slid the booklet inside the cover of my journal and readied myself. My thoughts haunted me. My wife had just died, yet I was focusing on the death of this puppy. Had I turned a “minor” into a “major” as a friend of mine describes it? Why had my brain resurrected this memory? The voice called my group, and I boarded.
Sitting there with my journal in my lap, buckled in, seatback in the upright position, aware of exits and oxygen mask procedures, I awaited takeoff. We rumbled down the runway, and the thrust of the jet engines pushed me into the back of the seat. I closed my eyes aware of a force that still holds me in awe. We rose into the air and turned westward toward home. I lowered the tray table and retrieved my journal expecting to return to my writing. I opened the journal, and there staring me in the face was the answer. I had glossed over the cover of the booklet until that moment, but right there in white shadow print was the answer to my question, Ultimate Healing by David Wilkerson, the very same pastor. I could scarcely believe what I was reading. How appropriate that the cover was printed in a shadow font and that the title and his name remained hidden from me until that moment. The power of the jet engines shrank in comparison to the thunderbolt of recognition I experienced.
After fifty years, for an act for which he had no responsibility, Reverend David Wilkerson had made amends. I found forgiveness in that moment, forgiveness for him for the accident, and forgiveness for myself for resenting him for so long. At a time in which my emotions were so raw and my grief so dominant, he was there to console me. Was this simply a coincidence?
Was it coincidence that one Sunday morning I attended a small country church in Iowa? Was it coincidence that Joy’s friend gave me the copy of Ultimate Healing? Was it coincidence that I ignored the cover? I do not think so. I believe it was the illusion of coincidence and that God does work in mysterious ways. Reverend Wilkerson’s ministry had reached across the years to help me begin to heal in a time of grief of such greater significance than that of the loss of a puppy. Reverend David Wilkerson had completed the grand circle, the circle of love.
“An Illusion of Coincidence”
Copyright 2010 © Michael J. McCabe
All rights reserved.
That weekend, I had occasion to attend two “country” experiences. The blue grass concert Saturday night in Pattonsburg, Missouri, was to be treasured. The quality of the music was equaled only by the quality of the pie served. The next morning, we went with an aunt and uncle to the Broadhorn country church at the edge of a cornfield seemingly in the middle of nowhere. It was a unique experience for a city guy reared in a Pennsylvania coal-mining town. I appreciated the sheer simplicity and energy of the service and remained to talk with one of the older members about the origin of the church. Cathy’s aunt Joy introduced me to the organist who had recently lost her husband. We shared a brief conversation and a common bond. She handed me a small religious tract on death and grieving. I tucked it in my back pocket, and later back at the house tossed it unread into my case.
The following day I left for Kansas City to fly back to Phoenix. I arrived early and had a few hours before the scheduled departure. I read the newspaper, began a novel, and practiced the timeworn craft of people watching. The clock crawled through the minutes, and I used the time to edit a poem that was vexing me. Rummaging through my case for my journal, I found the booklet. I began to read a different view on my status. Whether it was fatigue or just the omni-presence of emotions in my grieving, I was driven back to a grief experience fifty years earlier.
My family lived in a nice house a few miles outside of a town in central Pennsylvania. It was a great place to grow up. I roamed the fields and forest with my only kid neighbor, Johnny, and our beagles Captain and Blackie. The dogs were cousins and seemed to be as good friends as were Johnny and I. We lived the carefree lives of young boys with idle hours on sultry summer days.
My childhood Eden ended when my parents took my brother and me into town to see a dilapidated duplex on a street of row houses. I learned that we were soon to move there. I was devastated. I did not want to move into town much less into that dungeon of a house. However, at ten, it was not my choice, and I must confess, my mother turned it into a beautiful home for which I have fond memories. The one compromise was that I could take Captain with me. I was little prepared for the experiences that would arise out of that decision.
The house sat on a corner just six doors from a church. Used to running freely, the confines of the house were stressful to Captain. Not since he wore a cast on a broken hind leg as a puppy had he been so constrained. The only thing worse for him than being housebound was the peal of the bell at St. Peter and Paul’s. Captain’s baying rivaled an English foxhunt. Whether in pain, joy, or simple response, he would howl during and beyond each carillon. Unfortunately, the bell rang regularly calling the parish to mass. Our popularity as newcomers rapidly waned, and requests turned to complaints. Captain was exiled to the country to rejoin his cousin. My one concession had vanished.
A tan cocker Spaniel puppy assuaged my sadness when it appeared on my next birthday. He was the perfect dog for a small boy in a small house. Perfect, until the day he ran out onto Maple Street, and was hit by a car driven by a local minister, Reverend David Wilkerson, who traveled the street regularly. Buffy was dead. Frustration, guilt, and anger flooded my mind. I was frustrated because I did not know what to do. I felt the guilt of allowing him to run into the street, but I was angry with the Reverend. My memory is that he was more concerned with his car than the death of a puppy or the feelings of a youngster. I remember him walking around the car looking for damage. I remember him lashing out at me for letting the dog loose. I remember my anger when he blamed me.
Later that day, my dad and I buried Buffy in the forest, the process of healing the grief began, and eventually only the anger remained. Whether the memories of that day were the reality or not they lingered as the source of a fifty-year resentment toward the Reverend. For a while, I casually followed his career. I read his book, The Cross and the Switchblade, which was later made into a movie. I heard once that he moved to the Mid-west to begin an evangelistic ministry, but eventually I lost track of him, and he faded from my memory. He had not been a presence in my life, but fifty years later here I was, sitting at KCI, and my mind had transported me in time to a vivid memory and a simmering anger. I realized that all these years had passed and I had not forgiven a man, who seemingly just by coincidence was caught in what to a small boy was egregious behavior.
My mind returned to the present, and I began reading again. “No matter how much pain and suffering wrack these mortal bodies, none of it is worthy of the comparison to the unspeakable glory that awaits those who endure the passage.” Though the perspective was not from my religious frame of reference, the thoughts expressed were comforting. The booklet ended with a prayer including, “Most of all, deliver me from the bondage of the fear of death.” As I finished, a woman’s metallic voice announced that my plane would begin boarding in a few minutes. I slid the booklet inside the cover of my journal and readied myself. My thoughts haunted me. My wife had just died, yet I was focusing on the death of this puppy. Had I turned a “minor” into a “major” as a friend of mine describes it? Why had my brain resurrected this memory? The voice called my group, and I boarded.
Sitting there with my journal in my lap, buckled in, seatback in the upright position, aware of exits and oxygen mask procedures, I awaited takeoff. We rumbled down the runway, and the thrust of the jet engines pushed me into the back of the seat. I closed my eyes aware of a force that still holds me in awe. We rose into the air and turned westward toward home. I lowered the tray table and retrieved my journal expecting to return to my writing. I opened the journal, and there staring me in the face was the answer. I had glossed over the cover of the booklet until that moment, but right there in white shadow print was the answer to my question, Ultimate Healing by David Wilkerson, the very same pastor. I could scarcely believe what I was reading. How appropriate that the cover was printed in a shadow font and that the title and his name remained hidden from me until that moment. The power of the jet engines shrank in comparison to the thunderbolt of recognition I experienced.
After fifty years, for an act for which he had no responsibility, Reverend David Wilkerson had made amends. I found forgiveness in that moment, forgiveness for him for the accident, and forgiveness for myself for resenting him for so long. At a time in which my emotions were so raw and my grief so dominant, he was there to console me. Was this simply a coincidence?
Was it coincidence that one Sunday morning I attended a small country church in Iowa? Was it coincidence that Joy’s friend gave me the copy of Ultimate Healing? Was it coincidence that I ignored the cover? I do not think so. I believe it was the illusion of coincidence and that God does work in mysterious ways. Reverend Wilkerson’s ministry had reached across the years to help me begin to heal in a time of grief of such greater significance than that of the loss of a puppy. Reverend David Wilkerson had completed the grand circle, the circle of love.
“An Illusion of Coincidence”
Copyright 2010 © Michael J. McCabe
All rights reserved.
Passing On the Stories
Philippians 1: 3 “I thank my God every time I remember you.”
This email (abridged) from Ellen Smith, our missionary in Russia was was forwarded through my church .
Greetings to you in the name of the Lord!
We have such news, again, that we wanted to share it with you. … earlier this month, we asked for your prayers for Victor, the musician in Vyazma who lost two fingers in a work accident... When we heard the story, we contacted a friend at FPC Columbus, GA, who has told us about the guitar ministry of ... The Luthier’s Gift, to see if they could give us any advice about left-handed guitars and retraining. Glen, the founder of The Luthier’s Gift, wasn’t sure what was available in Moscow, but shared that there were books on chords, etc. Al went looking for left-handed guitars in Moscow, but didn’t find what he was looking for, so we put this on the back burner...
This past week ... we received an extraordinary email. A Russian youth team was visiting Columbus, GA, having traveled to Triennium ... On the last day of their visit, Andre, one member of team was visiting Glen’s guitar shop. That same day, a left-handed guitar had come in on consignment. The pieces clicked in Glen’s mind. He called the owner... who immediately donated it to Victor. Andre brought it back to Russia. Meg, our 19 year old, met Andre at the airport ... Pavel, pastor of the church in Vyazma, will come into Moscow and carry it back to Victor. So many hands have lovingly touched this guitar along the way (to) reach Victor, so that he can begin the process of relearning his beloved instrument, and again serve the Lord with music! …
Love and blessings,
Ellen
In Bob Barnes book, 15 Minutes Alone With God for Men, (Barnes, 1995) he writes about a moment with his grandson. “Someday, when PaPa's in heaven and you drive down this street as a man, you'll look at this bench we are sitting on and remember the day that Grammy Em and Christine served us jam and toast with a glass of juice.”
“Not only will I remember, but I'll bring my son and someday he'll bring his son and point to the bench and tell him about the toast and jam we ate under that big avocado tree over there.” Quite an insight from a seven-year-old. He sensed the need to sustain the continuity of our personal history.
A significant part of my history involves teaching. It is the opening of the new school year, and for the first time in 30 years I am not there. It is a odd feeling, and I have been thinking about school, the kids and teachers. I wonder how they remember me or if they will remember me at all.
How will the students remember the teachers they have this year? Positive or negative? Will it be about the class, the subject, or the teacher? Many of the students I had attended multiple schools and had multiple teachers. Did one of their teachers stand out among them? Was it me? I have had students come back and tell me things we had done or studied. They ask if I am still using an activity like a speech or mock trial, something I made a big deal out of, but those are not the typical questions.
This past spring, Gabriel, a former student was substituting at my school, and the first thing he asked me was, “Where's your hat?” Of all the things he could have remembered, he asked about my lack of a hat. Such a small thing, but it to him it wasn't; it was part of who I was to him. He did not ask me about what I had done; it was about who I am. Thinking about who I am as a teacher led to thinking of who I am as a parent and grandparent – a teacher of my children and grandchildren.
I hear my own sons, now grown men with families of their own, relating memories of their childhood. Sometimes, they tell stories going back to my youth that they have heard from me. Do those stories tell something of who we are? What we choose to do reveals the people we are. What would I want my grandchildren to know or remember of me? Is it we did or the person I am? Most of us probably want some of both. What do you want your children and grandchildren to pass on about you?
What are the stories you tell them? Are there stories they ask to hear again and again? There are stories of which my kids say, “Yeah, Dad, we've heard that one.” and sometimes finish it for me. The stories we tell repeatedly must be important to us. What is it I want my family to hear, and what stories have I not told, unintentionally or not. Later in his book, Bob Barnes writes about the “... privilege and responsibility we parents have to be called to teach our children and grandchildren the story of God's love, the stories of Jesus...” Do your stories include these? If our children or grandchildren are not hearing these stories, what can we do? What are our responsibilities? Are we living up to them?
I have children who are not raising their children in the church. They are not taking their kids to church or expressing their faith if it still exists. One of my sons said, “They are going to let their kids make the decision for themselves when they come of age.” How, I ask, can they make a decision about a faith they have never heard about? My grandchildren are among millions who are not hearing the stories and for whom the faith is not alive. It all boils down to the question, “How can we expect to keep our faith alive when our children aren't hearing the stories?” Perhaps, it is as simple as if you need a good story to tell, relate a good old Bible story that deserves re-telling. Perhaps, but I don't think so. It is not simply the stories they need to hear; it is our expression of faith in those stories that is important.
It is not always easy to weave a Bible story into a conversation, but telling a story like “Victor's Story” can be. We have all the elements of a classic Good Samaritan story: the present day setting outside Moscow. Victor the injured guitarist, who plays to serve the Lord; a host of Good Samaritans, Ellen and Al, the missionaries whose prayer and faith started the chain of events leading to Victor's recovery; Glen, the founder of The Luthier’s Gift; the owner who donated the guitar; and Andre, Meg and Pavel who transported the guitar to Victor. There is the futility of Al's search for a guitar in Moscow. Above all, we have God's hand in the climatic illusion of coincidence that took Andre to Glen's store the day after a left-handed guitar was consigned. Lastly, there is the untold conclusion of how Victor moves on in life. It is a conclusion that will be determined by faith alone.
We are surrounded by faith stories such as these; we have but to share them to start passing our stories and our faith to our children and grandchildren. I say to you again, “It is not just the stories they need to hear; it is the expression of our faith in those stories that is important.” We need to be the conveyers of our faith. If not us, who will it be?
* Barnes, B. (1995). 15 minutes alone with god for men. Eugene, OR: Harvest House.
** Giles, G. (2009). The Luthier's gift. Retrieved from http://www.luthiersgift.com/thegift.php
"Passing on the Stories"
Copyright © Michael McCabe 2010
All Rights Reserved
This email (abridged) from Ellen Smith, our missionary in Russia was was forwarded through my church .
Greetings to you in the name of the Lord!
We have such news, again, that we wanted to share it with you. … earlier this month, we asked for your prayers for Victor, the musician in Vyazma who lost two fingers in a work accident... When we heard the story, we contacted a friend at FPC Columbus, GA, who has told us about the guitar ministry of ... The Luthier’s Gift, to see if they could give us any advice about left-handed guitars and retraining. Glen, the founder of The Luthier’s Gift, wasn’t sure what was available in Moscow, but shared that there were books on chords, etc. Al went looking for left-handed guitars in Moscow, but didn’t find what he was looking for, so we put this on the back burner...
This past week ... we received an extraordinary email. A Russian youth team was visiting Columbus, GA, having traveled to Triennium ... On the last day of their visit, Andre, one member of team was visiting Glen’s guitar shop. That same day, a left-handed guitar had come in on consignment. The pieces clicked in Glen’s mind. He called the owner... who immediately donated it to Victor. Andre brought it back to Russia. Meg, our 19 year old, met Andre at the airport ... Pavel, pastor of the church in Vyazma, will come into Moscow and carry it back to Victor. So many hands have lovingly touched this guitar along the way (to) reach Victor, so that he can begin the process of relearning his beloved instrument, and again serve the Lord with music! …
Love and blessings,
Ellen
In Bob Barnes book, 15 Minutes Alone With God for Men, (Barnes, 1995) he writes about a moment with his grandson. “Someday, when PaPa's in heaven and you drive down this street as a man, you'll look at this bench we are sitting on and remember the day that Grammy Em and Christine served us jam and toast with a glass of juice.”
“Not only will I remember, but I'll bring my son and someday he'll bring his son and point to the bench and tell him about the toast and jam we ate under that big avocado tree over there.” Quite an insight from a seven-year-old. He sensed the need to sustain the continuity of our personal history.
A significant part of my history involves teaching. It is the opening of the new school year, and for the first time in 30 years I am not there. It is a odd feeling, and I have been thinking about school, the kids and teachers. I wonder how they remember me or if they will remember me at all.
How will the students remember the teachers they have this year? Positive or negative? Will it be about the class, the subject, or the teacher? Many of the students I had attended multiple schools and had multiple teachers. Did one of their teachers stand out among them? Was it me? I have had students come back and tell me things we had done or studied. They ask if I am still using an activity like a speech or mock trial, something I made a big deal out of, but those are not the typical questions.
This past spring, Gabriel, a former student was substituting at my school, and the first thing he asked me was, “Where's your hat?” Of all the things he could have remembered, he asked about my lack of a hat. Such a small thing, but it to him it wasn't; it was part of who I was to him. He did not ask me about what I had done; it was about who I am. Thinking about who I am as a teacher led to thinking of who I am as a parent and grandparent – a teacher of my children and grandchildren.
I hear my own sons, now grown men with families of their own, relating memories of their childhood. Sometimes, they tell stories going back to my youth that they have heard from me. Do those stories tell something of who we are? What we choose to do reveals the people we are. What would I want my grandchildren to know or remember of me? Is it we did or the person I am? Most of us probably want some of both. What do you want your children and grandchildren to pass on about you?
What are the stories you tell them? Are there stories they ask to hear again and again? There are stories of which my kids say, “Yeah, Dad, we've heard that one.” and sometimes finish it for me. The stories we tell repeatedly must be important to us. What is it I want my family to hear, and what stories have I not told, unintentionally or not. Later in his book, Bob Barnes writes about the “... privilege and responsibility we parents have to be called to teach our children and grandchildren the story of God's love, the stories of Jesus...” Do your stories include these? If our children or grandchildren are not hearing these stories, what can we do? What are our responsibilities? Are we living up to them?
I have children who are not raising their children in the church. They are not taking their kids to church or expressing their faith if it still exists. One of my sons said, “They are going to let their kids make the decision for themselves when they come of age.” How, I ask, can they make a decision about a faith they have never heard about? My grandchildren are among millions who are not hearing the stories and for whom the faith is not alive. It all boils down to the question, “How can we expect to keep our faith alive when our children aren't hearing the stories?” Perhaps, it is as simple as if you need a good story to tell, relate a good old Bible story that deserves re-telling. Perhaps, but I don't think so. It is not simply the stories they need to hear; it is our expression of faith in those stories that is important.
It is not always easy to weave a Bible story into a conversation, but telling a story like “Victor's Story” can be. We have all the elements of a classic Good Samaritan story: the present day setting outside Moscow. Victor the injured guitarist, who plays to serve the Lord; a host of Good Samaritans, Ellen and Al, the missionaries whose prayer and faith started the chain of events leading to Victor's recovery; Glen, the founder of The Luthier’s Gift; the owner who donated the guitar; and Andre, Meg and Pavel who transported the guitar to Victor. There is the futility of Al's search for a guitar in Moscow. Above all, we have God's hand in the climatic illusion of coincidence that took Andre to Glen's store the day after a left-handed guitar was consigned. Lastly, there is the untold conclusion of how Victor moves on in life. It is a conclusion that will be determined by faith alone.
We are surrounded by faith stories such as these; we have but to share them to start passing our stories and our faith to our children and grandchildren. I say to you again, “It is not just the stories they need to hear; it is the expression of our faith in those stories that is important.” We need to be the conveyers of our faith. If not us, who will it be?
* Barnes, B. (1995). 15 minutes alone with god for men. Eugene, OR: Harvest House.
** Giles, G. (2009). The Luthier's gift. Retrieved from http://www.luthiersgift.com/thegift.php
"Passing on the Stories"
Copyright © Michael McCabe 2010
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