Son of a Preacher Man: Of hearts, AFib, electrical 'resets' and finishing...

Son of a Preacher Man: Of hearts, AFib, electrical 'resets' and finishing...: Update. Well, if you look at things with a positive perspective, they say you can learn from them. My aforementioned heart procedure wa...

A walk for clean water worldwide, and between a grandpa and grandson, a precious connection

Saturday in West Valley City I joined my wife, Barbara, son Rob, daughter-in-law Rachel and grandson Josh, along with about 150 people from Barbara's church in the Utah version of the "Global 6K for Water."

Our path, heralded with the suitably P.A.-boosted Evangelical Christian zeal, balloons and banners, took us down the banks of a canal, through a park and finished back at a local junior high school parking lot. A sunny, breezy mid-spring morning in the Rockies made it a pleasant, if a bit extended stroll.

There were a few serious racers in this: think running shorts, stretching, frequently-checking-stop-watch types. Then were the less-serious, but still dedicated runners of a certain age . . . those who sought to recapture a glimpse of faded athletic glory, clad in Spandex, bathed in sweat and visages grim, winding through the slower herd toward what they hoped would be a new personal middle-aged best time.

 My cardiologist, having newly discovered I had developed "AFib," allowed me to participate, but only if I took it easy and was "mindful of what your heart is telling you." It said nothing. Still, no shortness of breath, dizziness, etc., so I proceeded at a leisurely pace, chatting with my grandson Josh.

We talked about beginnings, as young men often do with excitement and anticipation, and we older men do, too, in offering so-called wisdom harvested from memory and experience . . . and desire of the gray-haired and silver-bearded to taste youth again, however vicariously.

Somewhere, along that six kilometers stroll, dreams and memories met. Maybe they eyed each other warily, perhaps tentatively high-fived. I don't know; but it was a pleasant interlude.

Josh in in college, trying to find his path and working toward personal independence. I remember that, working lousy jobs cleaning toilets, washing dishes, unloading and loading truck on the docks, digging a ditch or two, or adding another coat of paint to the exterior of a decrepit rural motel to make it through college classes.

You do those things, I told him, because you know it's a means to an end -- that the most basic and base of tasks become worth doing if they get you another step on your journey.

It was a good, long walk. Keeping grandpa company meant being passed by faster walkers, even a young woman pushing another in a wheelchair and a 5- or 6-year-old girl navigating with a stroller bearing her two baby dolls.

But that's OK. We talked about life, faith, morality both connected to directly, and indirectly, to belief; girls, and the treasure of having them as friends without caving to the social pressure to making everything sexual; the sadness of kids growing up without parents who give a damn . . . and how blessed he is to have a mom and dad who do.

We finished the "race," not breathing hard, but deep. Not dead last, but a long way from anywhere near first. And, again, that was OK.

There was a satisfaction to it all, generations connecting. Something learned, perhaps, by young and, er, older alike.

And along with hundreds of thousands of like-minded folks worldwide, we raised a lot of money to dig wells and build water systems in Africa, Asia, Latin America, and the Middle East where the kids (pictured on the orange T-shirts we wore) typically have to walk an average of six kilometers to fetch water every day.

I thought of that, and winced a bit, when I got home, put ice in a glass and filled it with cold water from the kitchen tap.

(Oh, that AFib thing? I go in Tuesday to, hopefully, get that fixed. First, a down-the-throat tube to scan the heart, then a short, sharp shock to reset the ornery organ. So, if you think of me on May 7, about 1 p.m. Mountain, that would be nice; a prayer, too, if you are do inclined.)

A prayer for Zelda, a feline friend of brief acquaintance, a fellow creation

It was an old cat, and, the owners said before leaving her with us while they vacationed, a blind one.

Zelda was her name. She was affectionate; her charcoal and silver fur still soft and beautiful, though stretched over a thin, frail frame.

Monday night, my wife Barbara and I went over for the twice-daily check of our neighbor's condo, to play a bit with, and feed and replenish water, for Zelda and her companion feline. But when called, Zelda didn't come. As silence continued to our calls, a frantic search began.

Finally, we found her, unmoving, stuck between some fallen objects in a bookcase. The poor creature was barely conscious, and drenched in its own urine . . . but breathing. Rushed to the vet's office, she seemed to recover a bit, groggy but responsive.

The vet said Zelda has suffered seizures, but appeared to be coming out of it. Watch her through the night, she said, and bring her back in the morning. Nothing more to be done until then, just keep her comfortable, she said.

And so we did. Zelda got a sponge bath and was cuddled through the evening. But as night fell, she became more lethargic. Her legs stiffened in another seizure. 

Barbara wept. I had some tears, too. No one wants to see an animal suffer, and especially one that depends on human companionship for comfort in times of fear. So, bundled in towels to keep her comfortable and warm, I took Zelda gently from Barbara's arms, and into my own.

Lit candles, burned some incense. Before my icon corner, prayed for mercy for this creation of the God we each, in our own way, worshipped.

The old cat relaxed and slept, occasionally moving its legs from time to time, its tail slowly swaying to some unheard music as we settled her into her bed, next to our own.

Our two small dogs sniffed her, then settled in a short but respectful distance away, as if on guard against the night.

Every now and then, through the night, a flashlight beam revealed Zelda fast asleep. But at dawn, she was still. She was gone.

Mercy had come in the moments before sunrise.

Barbara broke the sad news by video chat with Zelda's "companion human," still overseas. She was sad, but grateful.

As for Zelda, and all those beloved pets we share love and wonder with for too brief a time, why not "heaven"?

Orthodox Christian thought does not rule it out for these icons of "unfallen nature." They share with us the "breath of life," and also have souls specific to their intended created natures.

Animals are not just part of the planet's furniture, but special, unique expressions of the Ultimate Love that bursts forth in life, beauty and joy from the void.

I had felt a kinship, the fallen man with the innocent creature, as I held Zelda for those moments, both of us in the presence of Our Creator.

Orthodox Christians seem to have a prayer for all of life's moments, those of joy and sadness alike. And I found one for Zelda, and for all those animals we love, and are loved by, during our sojourn in this mortal dimension:

Prayer at the death of companion animals

Holy God, Holy Mighty, Holy Immortal, have mercy on us. Glory to the Father and to the Son and to the Holy Spirit, now and ever, and to the ages of ages.  Amen.

O God of all spirits and of every flesh, everything that has breath praises you both in this world and the next.  Heaven is full of the sounds of creaturely voices in a great cacophony of praise and thanksgiving.  Day and night your creatures praise you, without ceasing and with joy.

In your all-encompassing mercy, O God, we now commit the life of this our beloved friend and companion to eternal fellowship with you. Create within us a spirit of gratitude for the life of (name). Give rest, O God, to (name) who lived among us and gave us freely of (his/her) love.

Holy Father, your Son Jesus Christ taught us that not one sparrow is forgotten in your sight. We ask therefore for you to provide a place of green pasture where (his/her) praises will be heard in your presence and where (he/she) shall be free from suffering and pain.

God our Creator, hear our prayer and let our praise unite with those in heaven into one long song of eternal thanksgiving:

Glory to You, O Christ our God, the source and destiny of all living things. Glory to You, O Christ our God, Who bears the wounds of all suffering creatures. Glory to You, O Christ our God, Who transforms all suffering into joy.

St. John saw the new heaven and earth; a place without pain, sorrow or crying; for the same God who creates, is the same God who reconciles and redeems all creation.

Glory to You, O Christ our God and Saviour of the Universe: in Christ shall all be made alive.

___________

The need for a new, truly honest and Christlike 'counter-culture'

The Mueller Report.

Watching the "spin" and polarizing vitriol on both sides of the political spectrum -- while the rest of us (the "silent majority?") remains baffled and rudderless about whom or what to believe -- I muse about what happened to truth, and in our culture today, the Truth.

I look at the "progressive', fading Protestant denominations, scrambling to beat each other for dwindling numbers of parishioners by tossing out their scripture-based standards (however misinterpreted, but that's another blog topic some day) to adopt whatever new, more comfortable moral and behavioral "standard" is out there.

And, I sigh.

I look at the retrenching, fundamentalist Evangelical churches who choose to fight cultural, social and spiritual devolution by just shouting louder, condemning with increasingly desperate conviction, and turning even more to political power as the answer -- even if that means backing a man (yes, I do mean Mr. Trump) who courts their views on trigger issues (abortion, traditional families, nationalism), while his private life (often made public) mocks the very morality on which they stake their high ground.

And, I sigh again, and deeper.

Where is Christ is any of this? Where is the western Christian culture that, will all its flaws, did so much right in providing the spiritual and moral foundation for so many ideals we say we hold dear: public education, social welfare programs, community building, jurisprudence, to name a few.

Nicholas Kotar, a deacon at Holy Trinity Monastery in Jordanville, New York, fantasy writer, and a fellow J.R.R. Tolkien aficionado, recently explored the need for a new Christian culture -- one based not on political but spiritual strength, not on imposing legislation but living by example, and ultimately, one truly based on Christ:

"There was a time when society itself was inspired by Christian principles. Art, government, society itself  emulated, as much as possible, the search for perfection dictated by the call to virtue. Christendom’s grand experiment had both peaks and troughs, of course, something beautifully explored in Fr. John Strickland’s forthcoming book Age of Paradise. Ultimately, however, the twentieth century’s many disasters and Christendom’s failure to stop revolution and world war, have discredited Christianity itself in the eyes of many.

"Nevertheless, I am convinced that only Christianity can revitalize a culture that has lost most of its connection with beauty and that glorifies banality, variety, and diversity as ends in themselves. In my opinion, this would not be a retread of historical Christendom, but a new vision, predicated on the new realities of an increasingly neo-pagan and transhumanist West. Only a revitalized and renewed Christian cultural vision of the world can attract people once again to the Light So Lovely."

*I highly recommend you read the entire blog by Kotar.  Just click on this link.

Reflections on a stormy, early spring day along the Jordan River Parkway

OK. I have no idea what this is.

A poem? Prose?

A cawing of a crow in its poor impersonation of a songbird?

Whatever. You tell me.

Here it is, from a stormy early spring afternoon, thoughts written down from my outdoor patio, two dogs at my feet as rain drenched the Jordan River Parkway.

           ______________

Too Early

Spring is newborn

Rain falls, but winter's breath lingers

Cottonwood bloomed

Too early

Not hail, unconvinced slush

Gray raindrops end on new grass

Days-old white blossoms

Stripped

A sigh, a silent wet landing

Ivory perfection one breath, then

pedals decapitated, slowly interred

Mud unmarked

But not forgotten

Life, so brief, fragile, beautiful

I saw your advent, your decay

Remembered

Fly fishing: So, here it is -- a river runs through . . . me

"Many men go fishing all their lives without knowing it is not fish they are after." 

That's from Henry David Thoreau, in many ways a self-centered jerk when it came to interacting with his fellow humans, but the man knew nature.

And, as I learned Saturday, holding a fly rod in my hand for the first time, Hank the Crank knew fishing, too.

My previous fishing experience was as an 8-year-old. My Uncle John took me along with my cousins, Marty and Gregg, to do some live-bait pole fishing in a creek out in eastern Washington's farmlands. 

I "caught" three catfish (thanks, unknown to me for years, Uncle John hooking some of his own catches onto my line when I was distracted).

I remember Mom frying them up in a cast iron pan on the stove in a second-floor apartment, central Spokane, Washington, neighborhood, where our vagabond preacher's family was staying at the time. 

The catfish tasted great, and I was so proud to have brought back a meal for my family from the great outdoors.

That defined my fishing experience until this Saturday. When I wasn't slipping on the icy, mossy rocks in the Provo River and getting drenched, there I was, now 65-year-old man, taking fly fishing lessons from a savvy, 20s-something river guide. (A gift for Barbara and me from our son Rob, wife Rachel and grandson Joshua).

Wool socks, waders and waterproof boots made it possible to stand in the river -- still frozen over just a few hundred yards downstream where the Wasatch Mountains shadows remained deep -- for several hours. 

After I quit obsessing over trying to remember all the parts of the rod, kinds of flies, weights, names for the motions ("windshield left," "windshield right," "Statue of Liberty," etc.) and remembering to follow the float thingy with the rod as it drifted with the flow . . . I found myself in that "perfect moment."

That "perfect moment" is what I like to call those slices of time in our lives when, ironically, time stops. The moment and its beauty, its tranquility, fill your senses and encapsulate your mind and spirit in a sort of solitary peace.

I've experienced this before, looking out from a mountain ledge after a long hike, just before setting up camp for a night of wood fire and stars. Another time, it was with Barbara, on a silent-running ship in Glacier Bay, Alaska, watching icebergs calve, crystal-clear slices of bluish of towering, frozen mountains of water cracking in the stillness before sliding into the frigid depths.

These are moments beyond self, part of that album of a lifetime's vignettes -- looking into your beloved's eyes, exchanging vows; watching your child be born, holding him or her that first time; the acapella singing of hymns, chanting of prayers, incense and candlelight of an Orthodox Christian Vespers service.

This time, I caught eight fish, an assortment of rainbow and brown trout, some whitefish. Also hooked a tree branch; it gave me quite a fight before leaping out of the water.

All those fish were admired, a couple photographed, and released back into the river. Always wondered about that "catch-and-release" bit. A bad policy for illegal immigration, perhaps, but a very satisfying culmination for fly fishing.

A mini-perfect moment then: reeling in a 14-inch rainbow after several minutes of fight, removing the hook, gently lifting it from the net, lowering it into the water and watching it swim away and into the darkness of the river's depths.

Certainly a "transitory enchanted moment," for me (OK, quite a liberty on my part appropriating that from F. Scott Fitzgerald's "The Great Gatsby" . . . but this is my blog, and my moment, so there).

But there was more beneath that now treasured memory. It was discovery of a state-of-mind that was uniquely tied to the experience itself -- that aforementioned "solitary peace."

For nearly four hours, my mind was enclosed is a bubble of serenity, immune to worries, aches, pains, grief. My world was the river, the rod, the sound of the water, the snow capped mountains around us, the laughter of Barbara, Rob, Rachel and Joshua.

Just watching the line float downstream after each cast was a meditation, each cast a wordless prayer of a sort.

It was a very good day.

And now, I know more of what novelist Norman Maclean meant when he wrote "A River Runs Through It":

"Eventually, all things merge into one, and a river runs through it. The river was cut by the world’s great flood and runs over rocks from the basement of time. On some of the rocks are timeless raindrops. Under the rocks are the words, and some of the words are theirs.

I am haunted by waters."

How faith rescues an addict, and launches a ministry

I was particularly pleased with this freelancing assignment. It was an honor to find such humility and honesty, and to be able to tell this young man's story.

https://news.ag.org/en/News/Addict-to-Pastor

Of old bicycles, old cars, old(er) guys

Old bicycles. Old cars.

Old(er) guys.

I guess I'm the latter one. Going to turn 66 in another few months. Been "retired" for almost a year.
Thing is, I don't feel old(er). 

Well, I don't feel older in mind or soul, at least.

I wake up with that eternal youth still welcoming the day . . . until he looks through old(er) eyes into the mirror.

The gray, thinning hair. The silvery stubble not quite in need of a shave. (Or is it, and I just could care less?) The jowls, the wrinkles, and the bags under the eyes.

Fire in the furnace, snow on top. Yada yada yada.

But enough about me. More than enough; makes me tired to think of it.

Let's discuss the old bicycle. Gears caked with dust and grease from winter storage, brake pads brittle with years heat and cold and use. Tires worn, but still in fair shape.

At least, on the latter, that's what Taylor's Bike Shop tells me. Cleanup, tweaking, greasing and making those tires all-but-puncture proof will be just shy a couple days and $130 to realize.

Then, the young soul in the old(er) body will be safe to ride the winding reaches of the Jordan River Parkway, thumb at the ready to ring the bike bell on approach to mindless walkers and roller-bladers drifting into my path.

And, maybe in the process of pedaling and huffing down the paths,  I'll improve the cardio, making the artificial aortic heart valve and pacemaker worth the effort . . . and lose some weight.

So, there's the bicycle part of this story, a rubber, aluminum and steel metaphor for senior citizenry if I ever heard one.

The car. The 1999 Honda Civic sedan, four door, 4-on-the-floor manual transmission, rescued from salvage by mechanical/sales genius Michael Westley, is once more cleared for travel in the "Life Elevated" state of Utah. (That's the slogan, having replaced the ill-advised "Utah: A pretty, great state" theme of a few years ago).

The Honda, victim of an unevenly applied repaint job mixing aqua marine with sea green, is near 135k miles and still running fine. The door locks even work, if one is patient with the keyring remote and adept at finding just the right angle to click.

About 40 degrees and within 5 feet seems best so far.

Thursday, April 4, 2019. Remember this date. It was a day when things old, stubborn and still with some good wear in 'em triumphed.

Well, at a cost, to be sure.

But victory, baby.


Dylan Thomas knew about it:

"Youth calls to age across the tired years: 'What have you found,' he cries, 'what have you sought?" 'What have you found,' age answers through his tears, 'What have you sought.'"

Grief: A sneaky, relentless foe, demands to be heard and felt

Grief is a sneaky, relentless foe. It fades, then suddenly reappears, trumpeting its arrival in emotional cacophony . . . demanding to be recognized, to be felt, to be heard.

I buried my father’s ashes last Friday on a sunny spring day in Spokane, Washington. I blessed his grave, a 2.5-foot deep hole in the dark, damp earth, with holy water from my church, Sts. Peter & Paul. Said prayers of the Trisagion.

Lord have mercy, we Orthodox Christians plead repeatedly. Glory to the Father, the Son and the Holy Spirit, both now and ever and unto ages of ages, amen.

 Dad was not Orthodox, but I am. And so, I prayed for him from my new tradition. Somehow, I know he appreciated it.

Heavenly king. Comforter. Spirit of truth. Everywhere present, filling all things. . . . . Save our souls, O Good One.

We mourners offered our words to Dad, each other. Memories were shared. Tears shed. Hugs given, and received. Farewells. The urn was placed in the ground, freshly turned earth packed over it, leaving a rich, dark brown mound interspersed with grass blades and pine needles.

Goodbye, Dad. But not goodbye to the grief.

Yesterday afternoon the Box arrived. It contained the few mementos, packets of photos, this and that saved from Dad’s nursing home room and shipped to me in Utah from Washington by UPS. I opened it, and with it, once more, opened the grave. Or so it seemed.

Having contemplated it once more, I will try again to close the grave with the soft soil of my heart. Not to forget, but to honor. Grief does not end, I’m learning.

It is, however, transformed. And transforming. Grief will take me where it will, and with prayer serving as my hand touching paradise, I will step ahead through the miles left in my own life.

I will do so with, I pray always, more and more love, and less sadness.

A eulogy for a very good man

*This is the eulogy I gave at my father's graveside memorial on Friday in Spokane, Washington. -- BM


Growing up, one of the things the family of the Rev. Robert Mims did a lot of was pack
up and leave places. We moved from one neighborhood to another, from one state to another. 

 By the time I was 11 years old, I had been in 13 different schools.

In each move, something would get lost. Toys. Pictures. Maybe a dish, and on one move there was a loss than made my mother cry: during the move from Spokane to Wilbur, a tiny central Washington farming town with an even smaller church, my parents’ large framed wedding photo was lost.

In the past year, my son, Rob, and I moved Mom and Dad from Lilac Plaza Assisted Living to the Cheney Care Center as their health, and dementia, grew worse. Like all the moves before, this mean some things got donated to charities, others were put in storage, and a few treasured items were lovingly safeguard by family
 
At home in Utah, recently, I finally opened boxes I’d brought back. There were Dad’s collection of several worn Bibles, his notes in the margins of passages of scriptures he’d used in sermons. A pressed flower in the pages of one Bible, and in others, handwritten notes and reminders of events and people long since passed.

Then, in a box Mom had treasured, there was a bundle of letters. Love letters, it turned out, from Dad, written while he was traveling as a banjo-playing evangelist throughout the post-WWII Pacific Northwest. They were handwritten pages filled with endearments, dreams and love for the future they would soon begin as a married couple.

Memories. Memories Mom and Dad lost, temporarily I believe, as their worlds shrank both physically and mentally over these past couple years.

As I have prayed about their situation, seeking wisdom for each decision came about their care and well-being, I wondered what happens to those memories, when we … forget.

“Nothing is lost in Me,” was the thought impressed on my mind. Love is not lost, nor are our loved ones. The ripples of blessing we start with each act of compassion are eternal; so are those comforting touches or embraces we give or receive, the wisdom we gain and share, and certainly the faith we live  and sacrifice for.

Mom and Dad didn’t need that wedding photo, as treasured as it was, to remind them of their love, nor their bond as man and wife, father and mother, grandfather and grandmother, and co-workers for the Kingdom of God.

You don’t need “stuff” to keep those good things of past. We will always have our yesterdays, even when we forget them in this earthly life.

I know this: even if our memories fade with the weakness of age and loss of cognitive function, on that Last Day, Our Lord will restore those memories to perfection – and that will be a perfection that is no longer distorted by the false concepts of past, present and future we wrestle with now.

In the eternal, uncreated light of our Lord, we will have a God’s eye view. Nothing of love is lost. Nothing committed to Christ is ever gone.

So, I know where Dad is today. And, I believe he knows all about us, here, as we honor his earthly years, and we ourselves glimpse Eternity. I pray for him, and he is praying for us.

And Dad today knows as tangible truth what we believe by faith here: The perfect, infinite love of God includes, sustains and restores His children, as the prayer goes, “both now and ever and unto ages of ages.”

In our sentimental memories -- those photos, videos, letters, old Bibles, the contents of cedar chests and dusty boxes -- we have our yesterdays. But in Christ, we also have our tomorrows.