Ole Jacks

On Tuesday I had seven hours from the time I arrived in Anchorage from Pilot Station, AK where daughter lives until my flight back home to Illinois. So I left the airport, took a cab to downtown and explored a bit of the city. I visited a museum and then walked down the street to the mall. I visited every floor but I am not a mall kind of guy. I left the mall from the 5^th Avenue exit. I immediately saw a sign that read “Fur Alaska”. I found my way across the street and entered the shop. There I met “Ole Jacks”. That is how introduced himself when I asked his name. He said I used to be “young Jacks” but now I am 80 so I am “Ole Jacks”. The store appears a bit cluttered. One whole wall is covered with newspaper clippings and pictures from times past. Jack himself is sitting in a tiny passage way between two counters partially hidden by a stack of magazines. We begin to visit and he tells me his story. He is native Alaskan. He has lived here all his live except for the time he worked for President Truman during the Korean War. When he came home he went in the fur business trapping and buying furs, selling some and making others into clothing. He got his pilots license so he could travel into far away and remote places in the Alaska interior to buy furs. Alaska is God’s country he tells me at least a dozen times. “Ole Jacks” is good at what he does. I am guessing that fur coats are his specialty. He has made fur coats for Presidents Ford and Reagan and for a Japanese president and for former Soviet President Leonid Brezhnev. He proudly shows me a picture of Brezhnev wearing his coat in the presence of President Ford. “If I can measure a man I can make it fit” he says. He asks about where I am from and what I am doing in Alaska. I tell him I have come to visit my daughter who is a teacher in Alaska and he is interested in how she is doing. We visit for probably 20 minutes. I am pretty sure I cannot afford one of his fur coats. He must know that as well because he does not try to sell me one. Before I leave he says “I think you are a salt of the earth man from Illinois”. I am thinking this man is a salt of Alaska’s earth. I have traveled a lot of places and what I enjoy most about travel are the people I meet, often by chance encounter, along the way. Cab fare from the airport to downtown cost me $40 but meeting Ole Jacks is far more valuable than that. If you go to Anchorage you ought to stop in at Fur Alaska 329 W. 5^th Avenue. Maybe Ole Jacks will be there.

Tiny Pulpits

A few months back I was rummaging through a closet at church and I discovered a tiny pulpit. It was amateurishly hand made from simple pine boards and plywood. My first thought was this is for a very short preacher. Or perhaps someone made it so children could play church. I was curious so measured it. It was 23 inches from the ground to the top lip. I discovered later that due to lack of Sunday School classroom space, someone, many years ago, had been forced to teach their class in the back corner of the sanctuary. So he made the short pulpit, placed it in the seat of probably the 4^th pew from the back of the church and used it as a lectern from which he taught his class who sat in the three back pews of the church.

My junk closet discovery is physically the tiniest pulpit I have ever seen. But I am afraid I have seen other pulpits that in reality are smaller than this one. In ministerial terms to say someone occupies a large pulpit means they preach from a place of prominence and great influence. It might mean they preach to a large church. In this sense the size of the pulpit defines the size of the pulpiteer. In a more fair world the pulpiteer would define the size of the pulpit but it does not always work that way.

In terms of what I have just described I have never occupied what I would call a large pulpit, though I have occupied some that were larger than the one I currently occupy. But I have tried to use the pulpit properly, though I am sure I have sometimes failed to do so. I have tried not to think about the size of the pulpit. Instead I have tried to focus on and judge myself as the pulpiteer. I may have a small pulpit but I do not want to be a small pulpiteer.

Ever since I found the tiny pulpit in the church junk closet I have been mulling over this thought. The question I keep asking myself is “what makes, or what determines, a tiny pulpit”? Or to ask it another way “what makes or determines a large pulpit”? I have thought of about 15 answers to that question and each answer has merit. I am not through exploring this question but here is my thought for today. The size of the pulpit is determined by the heart and soul and character of the pulpiteer who occupies the pulpit. If the pulpiteer does not believe in and have passion for the truth that he or she proclaims they are small pulpiteers and have made their pulpit small. And if they have no love in their hearts for the people they preach to then they are indeed little preachers occupying a tiny pulpit.

Adventures in Pilot Station

My daughter Brittney made the move to her new home in Alaska this week. After a long flight she arrived in Anchorage last Sunday evening. She spent the next two mornings participating in new teacher in-service and spent the afternoons taking care of details like buying a semester’s worth of groceries, obtaining an Alaska driver’s license, registering to vote, etc. Then on Wednesday she made the 450 air mile journey from Anchorage to Pilot Station Alaska. The last leg of that journey was in a six passenger Cessna. She was impressed that she got to ride in the co-pilot seat. Pilot station is a native Alaskan fishing village, population 800, located along the Yukon River. There is no highway system. It is accessible by boat or by air.

The locals were out in mass to meet them upon their arrival as were a multitude of dogs with their litters of pups. I deprived her of pets growing up but as an adult she has developed a fondness for dogs. She will be living in a three bedroom house that she shares with another teacher. She says the area is pretty. She quickly went to work setting up her new home and is fast making friends with both the local population and the school personnel. The local hangout is the AC store, which is part of a chain of stores that operates in remote Alaska villages. She has made several trips there and bought a coffee mug in which she can get free refills. She has tasted pilot bread. She has learned to use a propane stove and has baked her own bread. She bought a package of Reindeer meat and cooked and sampled some of it. She went to the river at the time when the local fishermen give out free Salmon. I never taught her to fish. But with a little instruction she managed to clean her own fish “I cut its head off and took its guts out Daddy.” It was a big fish. She cut it into 11 pieces, froze 10 of them and cooked the other piece. She reported that it was good. Today she and some other teachers picked some wild berries and they are hoping for another free Salmon.

She is an adventuresome soul. I did not let her have pets when she was growing up and I did not take her fishing. But I did try to teach her to dream and to explore and to not be afraid. Next week she will fly to another village in the school district for new teacher meetings and the next week she will be making preparations at her school. Then the school year will begin. I am confidant that she will do well. She is a brave young lady. I wish I had been as brave as she is when I was her age.

A visit to My Father's Grave

It is 235 miles from my house to Georgetown, KY. Not a bad trek, especially if you have a good chauffer, which I do. My wife does most of the driving on trips. As long as I will buy her Starbucks along the way she does not complain. Yesterday after church we made the drive to KY, spent the night with my Aunt Lorna, and today went to the Georgetown Cemetery to place flowers on my father’s grave. This was only the second time I had been there since we buried him last September. The sod was growing nicely where the earth had been disturbed last fall. The date of his death, September 5, 2013 had been etched into the stone. The location is peaceful and quite. The grounds are well kept.

I am quite certain that my father was unaware of my visit to his burial site. He is experiencing a new reality in a joyful eternal place. But love and respect for my father and a lingering grief compelled me to travel the distance and spend a few moments at the spot where he is buried. I placed a simple arrangement of flowers at his stone just to say “I love you Dad”. I suppose that is not necessary. Maybe it is a lot of effort for a small and brief gesture. I guess it is a bit of an old fashion thing to do. Perhaps that is all true. But my dad was an old fashion guy and I am a chip off the old block. So I did it – one old fashion guy to another old fashion guy!

Dancing with Life

When my daughter was a daisy girl scout her troop had a father-daughter dance. No moms allowed. Just dads and their five and six-year old daughters. She bought a new dress and put ribbons in her hair. I bought her a corsage. I put on my best suit and on a Saturday night, on the eve of Sunday morning, we went to the dance. One of the deacons from my church was there with his daughter. We gave each other a gloriously devious grin and we held our daughters in our arms and we danced. I could show you pictures to prove it. But all the proofs I need are the lingering images of my daughters smiling face. That is the only time I ever took my daughter to a dance. But we have done a lot of things together. In those times I tried to teach her how to dance the dance of life. I sought to show her how to dance to the tune of God’s call on her life. She is all grown up now. Her professional career has taken her to the plains of western Kansas and to the ghettos of Mississippi. This fall she will venture into the bush country where she will teach school in the Native American village of Pilot Station, Alaska. People ask me, don’t you worry about her going that far away? Well yeah, but I am her daddy and I worry about a lot of things. But I would worry more if she did not dream and work to bring those dreams to fruition. When opportunity presents itself I do not want her to sit it out the dance. I want her to take hold of the adventures life offers. I want her to listen to the music that God places in her soul and dance to it! Life is not about sitting at the corner table and sipping sodas. It is about getting out on the dance floor. So get dressed for the dance girl! Extend your hands and partner with the opportunities in front of you. Let the Lord put his hand on your waist and follow His lead. Dance!

A Cross and Apple Blossoms

I traveled to the bottom of the state of Illinois today to the town of Anna. I met with a group of pastors and we dialogued about evangelism. I decided to take a scenic route home. I drove on west about 5 miles and then headed north on IL Route 127. The next 25 miles is one of the most scenic in our state, especially this time of year when the apple trees are in full bloom. As my truck groaned up the hills I marveled at the freshness and newness of life.  I smiled at the potential of fruitfulness that danced upon the landscape. I glanced to the west and saw the large white cross perched atop a hill known as Bald Knob near Alto Pass, IL. I exited the highway and drove a winding road five miles through the timber and then walked to the foot of the cross. The wind was brisk so I did not stay long. But I tarried long enough to reflect upon how a cross, a cruel instrument of death, became God’s tool to bring life and salvation to the world. Since that time, while the cross may remind of us death, it has become a symbol of life and hope.

I have been weepy all day. In fact, I have been weepy for a week or so. I needed to see the apple blossoms. I needed to see the cross. I am not sure why I have been weepy as of late but I think it is because I have been feeling, or at least trying to feel, some of the pain that exist in the hearts of my brother Bryan, my sister in-law Renee, and my nephew Andrew. April 16, 2014 marks the 7^th anniversary of my niece Austin Cloyd’s death. She was killed along with 31 others at the shooting on the campus of Virginia Tech University in 2007. Though I make a feeble attempt to feel their pain I cannot imagine the depth of their hurt. But through my weepiness I found hope today. The apple blossoms prove that winter has been overtaken by spring and summers warmth will bring a harvest. Life can be good even though it has been bad. And that cross on top of Bald Knob shouts to my soul. Death may have its sting, but Christ has the victory.

A Faithful Servant

I just sneezed. Immediately my 28 year old autistic son Brock  got up from his chair and soon he was standing beside my desk with a box of Kleenex. It is the same pattern every time Brock hears my sneeze. The pattern got started I guess a couple of years ago when I sneezed and then asked Brock to get me a Kleenex. He graciously performed the task. Every since that time whenever I sneeze he will stop whatever he is doing, go to the bathroom and come back with the box of Kleenex. Sometimes I try to stop him by telling him that he does not need to do or that I do not need a Kleenex. But there is no stopping him. If he hears me sneeze he is off to the races to perform this service for me. He has been known to interrupt his meal or get out of bed at night to attend to my need. Service has become a habit for him. He appears to do it not just as a duty but with love and joy. The scriptures teach us that the greatest among us are those who serve others. I sure do have a great son.

But I am left to wonder this morning how difficult it seems for most of us to develop a pattern of being a servant. And when we do develop that pattern it often becomes a duty and drudgery rather than an exercise of love and joy. How easy it is to become weary in well doing. Being a servant is not the normal pattern of the general populous. Being a faithful servant is unusual. Yet we have been called to develop this attitude and to perform service to others. It is this rarity of becoming a servant that makes us great.