Sidewalk Inspector

It is winter, still seems like midwinter, exactly as stated in my January 24 post.  On that day it was about installing a new furnace.  This day its about paying for that thing, fortunately cold enough so it doesn't feel like wasted expenditure.  As most of you know, I walk daily on the pathways or sidewalks of our community. It's what I need to do for health reasons - physical, mental and spiritual. I also find it very enjoyable and for that reason probably overstate it just a bit.  My children hear this as dad's solution for everything. Somebody has bad attitude toward something or somebody, "Take a walk."  Somebody has a kink in the neck, or growly tummy, "Take a walk." Somebody has a broken back, "Take a walk - carefully at first."  And to my fellow seniors, if they hint at a lack of bedroom pleasures, "Take a walk." 😌 The beauty of walks is that your grumblings and life maladies drain out of your system left right left right left right.

Until you hit minus 30 or so, or until you're slipping and sliding on unshoveled sidewalks!  Then it becomes bit of a challenge, which brings up theme of the day. After considerable research, and some occasional creative dance steps to avoid falling on the old backside, I proffer my findings. I quite understand if these incidents happen on the morning after the snowfall before, or even the day after. My slippage hospitality, however, decreases as the days go by! Eventually I'm walking in full-on grump mode.

After many passings by I have a good idea who lives where (I know where you live 😏).  Unshoveled walks and walkways along with sleds and toys strewn in half-open gates suggests a family with lots of action and youngish parents perhaps messy or untrained in home management.  I’m okay with that. Sidewalks unshoveled with little evidence of action, I have a problem with that. Somebody there needs to take a walk! Then there's the place with ample 4x4 pickups and one of those right-hand steering noisy toonsie cars, corner lot no less, where I visualize much youthfulness plugged into devices, TVs and whatever makes that sweet smokey smell in  their backyard! I did not enjoy my recent ice-dance going by there. 

Then there are the many others I walk by.  New neighbors to the left of us have a brand new baby, to the right a little school boy, next door down a high school teacher and family and children; next door to them an old Irishman who was here even before we arrived.  Some of us are old and some of us are new. And most of us, dammit we shovel our sidewalks!  Come to think of it, I do appreciate another neighbor from way down the street (a young guy actually) who has been coming by with one of those noisy snow or leaf blowers – makes a nice job on a cold morning even as he comes up my sidewalk a bit.

 

Lest I’ve sounded a bit crotchety here, I hasten to add, I like this neighborhood.  It's our home in this modest community in a rather privileged location. The memories are mostly pleasant. Having been here 30 years makes us part of the history including several neighbors now widowed along with the thoughts and care that go with that - watching out for one another including some extra sidewalks. Three blocks from our house we have a man-made lake complete with beach, tennis courts, hockey rinks and toboggan hill. Two blocks the other way we step into the pathways, the grasses and the flowing water of Fish Creek Provincial Park.  Welcome everyone, just as soon as this Coronavirus leaves town!

If one of our kids agrees to be our caregiver until the bitter end, I hope our sidewalks will be clear.  And if by then they have robots programmed to take care of that detail, so be it.

The Preacher and the Boys

 October 27, 2020

Tom and I.  The place of our meeting was the hockey rink or the fastball diamond.  I don’t quite remember which came first.  All I know is those places of meeting were ever so important.  These oldtimers (anybody over 31!) or church teams were absolutely essential in my mind –  and in Tom’s mind and in a whole number of others our age. It was a place to meet around common interest, and better than sitting in pubs or coffee shops. Some of our team-mates attended church regularly, some occasionally, some not at all.  It mattered not to me.  Having grown up in Osler – Warman area I understood the ball diamond or soccer pitch or hockey arena.  I could not envision trying to say anything behind a pulpit if it had not had some testing out there!    

In Edmonton I played first base and Tom was our rather formidable pitcher.  [Did I mention that my pastoring career moved to Edmonton after fairly brief stint in Saskatoon?  And lo and behold Tom & his wife and their two young sons also showed up!  And they were definitely among the regular eager participants in all things in that dynamic new congregation].

The beginning of Faith Mennonite Church in Edmonton was like a swarm – we all went everywhere.  After church it was a family thing; me and my family, everybody else and their families or girlfriends or assembly of relatives or friends, off to the ball diamond.  "Hum ball big Tommy man, like you can, like you can big fella right down the old tube. Rock ball." The preacher did the talking in his left ear and he threw the curve balls!  On Sunday mornings he did the listening (Well, you know…).  One year we won the Edmonton Church League championship.  We had to.  After all we now resided in the City of Champions. 😋

Ten good years there and off to Calgary. I believe it almost providential that Tom and I moved to Calgary with our families again almost at the same time – me to begin in a new pastorate, and he to pursue a considerable promotion in his employment with Parks Canada.  My work became quite stressful, and his - - - I don’t know for sure.  We just did not connect quite as much even though he and family again joined the church I was the pastor of.

The preacher and the pitcher perhaps not connecting quite as much, but his wife and my wife were best of friends - steady force even until Marg's passing in 2003. Also this preacher has a thing with depression – my diagnosed thorn in the side which eventually led to ‘my alter ego career.’  So Tom and I; our relationship changed perhaps a bit - from preacher and the pitcher to trucker and the businessman.  Not quite so much “hum ball, rock ball”, but a little more of trucker stories by the preacher, and lots of detail about this and that (Tom's specialty was to get the details right). 😁  

Richard Rohr, in his popular spiritual book, Falling Upward: Spirituality for the two Halves of Life (2011), says we all spend the first half of our life trying to make our mark, and the second half dealing with what we have not accomplished. I think that was us. We spoke about the wide open U.S. interstates, about his hunting trips, about God, about his hobby photography, and of course our common Saskatchewan knowledge base.  Alberta politics always got analyzed from that vantage!  Also many discussions about us Mennonites. No secret here we approached it differently, he the cultural Mennonite, and me still the preacher (born-again even, gospel requires born-again). Quite often whether from the preacher or the trucker he heard from me my strong theme that God does not care about pedigree. God cares for you and for me. It was like he agreed with me but did not like me to get going on that too much. Our friends, our other good buddies? Varieties of opinions on said subject.

So I could go on. The unspoken agenda - the one identified by Rohr - about things not quite getting done, some things avoided. It is so nice to laugh with someone about things like that! And both of us knew that more than ever we needed each other. Last several years many times he enthused that we could acquasize together to help with his latter malady, parkinsons disease.  I in turn appreciated him helping me finally agree with him that maybe I should retire!  Tom, we were so different, and we so needed each other.  I thank my God in all my remembrance of you (Phil. 1:3).

 

February 11, 2021

John and I.  I remember precisely when we first met.  It was after morning worship service, my first sermon at Trinity Mennonite, Calgary.  John was pleased, cheerful, complete with welcoming hearty handshake and introduction of his eldest son. Somehow he didn’t get that quite right and the son was so embarrassed that his dad should say it that way!  I completely understood John not getting it quite right for a son of that important adolescent age. I regularly suffered the same mistakes with my daughter of similar age.  Life is hard when you got fourteen year-olds. John and I became friends.

Several Sundays down the pike, just getting into my work as new pastor at Trinity, and as per suggestion from our Mennonite conference worship guides, we had a “No Oil Sunday”.  Obviously the goal was to raise environmental and lifestyle awareness including the suggestion that congregations utilize alternative transportation getting to church on that particular Sunday. Those within walking or biking distance complied obediently, enthusiastically, or perhaps indulgently! Obviously there were also the acreage dwellers among us, those who drove twenty to thirty kilometers to church – and they of course came by their usual method.  Everybody cooperating with the new pastor as much as possible; my sermon and worship demeanor of course accommodated all, including visitors, in full diplomacy.  We worshiped hospitably, cheerfully, even as I became aware of John’s Engineering Company hard at work in oil and gas, along with others in this church in similar professions. 

Needless to say we quickly got acquainted. Varying perspectives politically, theologically and otherwise were soon discovered. It was the Calgary way as opposed to the Edmonton way. Life continues within church communities even as certain lines in the sand become evident. It was also understood that I would remain an Edmonton Oilers fan; how could I not after having won five Stanley Cups in the previous decade! 

The joy of a pastor and the people especially in Anabaptist Mennonite congregations, is that the preacher must never presume to be proclaiming the Word of God from the pulpit.  It does not become 'the word' until the people have said amen.  In other words the pulpit is not the place of authority; the preacher is a servant of the people gathered (something easily forgotten among today’s young preachers). This theological uniqueness, once understood, was greatly affirmed by John. We had many discussions on precisely that, along with spiritual, career, and personal implications thereof. And, many times there would be from him the “Amen”, or there would be a little discussion, both of us understanding the limitation and the blessing thereof.

What a pleasure to have John in the congregation, clearly a born-again Christian, along with my similar claim (John 3:3), he from his UC background and me from my OC!  We are who we are not by lineage but by the grace of God.  Using his referent MBC (Mennonite by Choice) John’s supportiveness was everywhere, openly and obviously displayed by his service as usher, and more deeply by his participation in the stewardship life of the congregation. My eyes still well up as I recall one occasion we discussed the absolute importance of the scripture in 2 Corinthians 9:7 Each of you should give what you have decided in your heart to give, not reluctantly or under compulsion, for God loves a cheerful giver. Not only did he believe it, but he practiced it. On several occasions I experienced this theology of generosity and supportiveness well beyond what might be expected of church members.

Retirement is a considerable challenge. A good portion of that challenge is to no longer be the pastor but yet participate in the ongoing congregational life.  These two friends, congregants now deceased, obviously have been significant players in this retirement chapter of my journey. In fact I now realize this blog post is actually an expression of my grief (Elizabeth Kubler Ross, On Death and Dying, 1969). Many things these last several years would illustrate that - projects of the day, things accomplished or not accomplished (cf also Richard Rohr). Much of this was discussed in our homes, in church, local restaurants or social gatherings including the occasional brewskie. Two different personalities, yet common enough to represent sizable portions of the people who make up our churches. We are definitely a faith community beyond or in spite of our vocations or professions. Tom liked the comfort of fellow ‘religionists’.  He knew much detail about Mennonite history, even quite conversant in his family’s lineage and influence back in the old country.  John also knew considerable history, but talked little about that detail.  His discoveries revolved more around family and then the faith as represented by us Mennonites and obviously his beloved wife.

Eventually John experienced some disappointment with us, his church family - some things proceeding not as per his understanding of the Bible. He was considerably bothered by fellow Mennonites living to suit modernist trends rather than clear teachings in the book. Tom on the other hand not too bothered; he read history and financial statements, not so much the Bible.  Both of these friends, my brothers in Christ, also lived each under some self-reproach for some personal short comings they wished they did not have.  Interestingly this is a 'forever' problem, even the Apostle Paul struggling with a personal ‘thorn in the side’ (2 Corinthians 12:7). Very often we camouflage personal disappointments by holding even greater conditionals over fellow believers. Therefore a secretiveness often may hover even over a people of genuine faith. 

This however is not about that, and certainly not a theological treatise. It is about my two friends, the red neck and the liberal.  I am lonely for both of them.  Praise the Lord, we have room for one another within our Anabaptist communities. It has been my privilege to walk alongside their earthly days.  Both of them on several occasions fully acknowledged the words from Hebrews 9:27. It is appointed for men to die once, and after that comes judgment.  They were good with that. I am good with that.

To Do Nothing

Most of my posts of this past year have begun with the challenge of what to do in this corona time - all the way from books read or repair projects or people met here or there which would then be relegated to my 'thinker' and give rise to insights profound or practical or perhaps quite useless, but at least something to do.  I write because I enjoy it, but suspect also leftover traits of this workaholic, however retired I might try to be.  I am one of those still wired for action like Rudyard Kipling's "sixty seconds worth of distance run" in that famous poem "If," or my dad's all purpose saying, "An idle mind is the devil's workshop".

Having just completed a project, and just as my brain was slipping into the stand-by "what's next?" I allowed myself a small perusal of some articles written once upon a time during my trucking years.  Right before my eyes was one which immediately brought a smile to my face and a nice reminder.

 Feb. 8, 2011                                       

EXTREME DISCIPLINE

I think I just raised the bar on self discipline.  Usually when I think discipline it’s in context of things to do – get some exercise, do your homework, and the famous one my children will never forget, “Get out of bed so we won’t be late for church again!”  Last night I learned a new angle on discipline.  It was the extreme discipline of doing nothing, and the teacher was my truck!

After a day’s hard drive I pulled into this small town, Shaniko, OR and promptly ventured to a little road at corner of town which has been my quiet sleeping spot on several previous occasions.  Just prior to parking I do a U-turn at end of road in front of an old building.  This time, unlike previous occasions, while doing the turn I felt some slippage back there, started ‘giving er’ a bit more to get back onto the safety of road – and spun out!   Aagh, there I sat in the corner of town, drive tires undeniably mired in mud.

Somehow, thankfully, I resisted the impulse to work at it, to spin tires, to rock, to chain up, to make phone calls, etc.  Instead I counseled myself to stay calm, do the logbook, say my prayers, and go to bed. I also left the brakes off, unlike the way you usually do it when parked.  Maybe, just maybe, in the morning my tires will be frozen hard on the frozen mud and maybe, just maybe, the treads will grab a little traction and lift themselves out of this yucky dilemma.  Far fetched as it felt, I knew that had to be first line of attack to this problem.

That was the plan.  Even at bedtime I had to fight off impulses of self-doubt, as though somebody was whispering, “that won’t work, you’re sunk, idiot, now just add a $400 tow bill to the $200 you just spent in Calgary to fix a guy’s bumper”, etc, etc.  Mercifully I was able to lay those thoughts aside and fall asleep fairly quickly.  At 03:00 I woke, obviously my body looking for a little warmth from my trusty Webasto.  While the heater did its job (what a handy little option that devise) I fought the impulse to try it now in the middle of the night, but resisted that impulse because I knew if I failed now, that last stretch of night would be sleepless with fresh self-loathing and adrenalin coursing through my veins.  Instead, another prayer and some deep breathing and I slipped back into merciful sleep.  I woke up at my usual time, 06:00!  Yes!

Even now in the crisp morning air I told myself once more “discipline”, said another prayer (interesting how one's prayer life improves directly in proportion to desperate circumstance), made the bed and got dressed as per usual, still fighting off despairing thoughts about the state of my wheels back there! Then I started the truck (it starts like a charm these days), put it in reverse just to kind of wake up the power train, and then the big test.  I put it in second gear, gently let out the clutch and idled out of there!  Yes, I drove right up onto the gravel where I had planned to spend the night! 

Oh Lord, thank you!  It’s like I just had a heart transplant. The whole morning darkness took on a hue of glory. I walked – or rather skipped - back where I had spent the night right atop those yawning black tracks, thanking the Lord over and over.  Ironically only a few days ago I had read Exodus 15, the song of Moses after the people of Israel escape pursuing Egyptians at the Red Sea.  I had not escaped an evil pharaoh or pursuing armies, but indeed I had escaped despair.  I was able to claim the self discipline needed not only to think clearly about what to do, but also to have a nice safe sleep while awaiting the miracle.

 Jake Froese, Truck 2774

With minimal editing, I submit this article as written back there.  It was but the rambling of a trucker, but here it is among my profound and occasionally elitist, strident posts 😁 of these days.  Really, come to think of it, that trucker discipline back there may be as useful today as it was then. 

 

St. Francis and The Chief

Last evening I had a kairos moment.  Kairos, from my studies of long ago, is the Greek rendition of a significant moment - an aha moment, or moment of clarity.  I was watching a YouTube recording of Calgary's first celebration of United Nations Interfaith Harmony Week.  The dignitaries and representatives of various faith groups provided very nice land acknowledgement, introductory statements, prayers, along with some gifts of music and drumming.  The mood of community cooperation was palpable, to the extent that I experienced this as a good news gospel service.  It was inspiration beyond any recent Sunday morning worship, in person or in corona-virtual!  Indeed it became clear to me why Calgary had received the U.N. Interfaith Harmony King Abdullah First Prize for our celebration that week in 2017.  [I do not know, however, why so much is made of that first prize over and over, but I digress]. 

To me the highlight of that 2017 service at City Hall was the significant personal tone set by Chief of Police Roger Chaffin.  He told us a bit of his own story; his own loss of belief in any divine force at end of his fourteen years as a beat officer in Northern Ireland, weary of the Irish Catholic, British Protestant animosity.  And from within his own confessed cynicism he 'happened upon' a prayer which he said has changed his life ever since.  Then with some pauses for humble gulps of emotion he read to us the Prayer of St. Francis.

Lord make Me an instrument of Your peace
Where there is hatred let me sow love.
Where there is injury, pardon.
Where there is doubt, faith.
Where there is despair, hope.
Where there is darkness, light.
Where there is sadness joy.
O Divine master grant that I may
Not so much seek to be consoled as to console
To be understood, as to understand.
To be loved. as to love
For it's in giving that we receive
And it's in pardoning that we are pardoned
And it's in dying that we are born...
To eternal life.

A number of my recent blog posts have stated summarily, or at least suggested, that God is present in the most ironic surprising ways and places (Yes, including that truck repair shop, Dec 7 "Sacred and the Profane").  This time God showed up via a police chief speaking to the religious leaders. This was a significant transparent message which all professional clergy need to hear and take to heart. Honesty and transparency is still the greatest communicator.  2017 was not a good season for the Calgary Police Service.  I remember from news reports that many new challenges were being faced that year, and morale was low.  In fact it was the year of Chief Chaffin's resignation - not because of a political travesty or controversy that needed to be investigated, but because he felt it time for new and younger leadership to get in the fray.  I realize now that from within the challenges of his position, this chief spoke a message of God to the 'messengers of God'. 

Tonight I participated for the first time in U.N. Interfaith Harmony Week.  It's 2021, so by now four years have elapsed. Imagine my surprise when St Francis appeared again, this time from the lips of our Mayor Naheed Nenshi!  I am again moved, slightly stunned even at the power of this Interfaith event. First of all at the longevity of that old message from the saintly Catholic friar of the 13th century.  And secondly those words of faith again coming from the civic leaders; not from the clerics.

I rest my case.  Even as a world moves on, or moves to its conclusion (read Matthew 24), I marvel at a good word - the word of God - coming from surprising places and in surprising ways.  Recently one book from my library got fired into the recycle bin, the yellowed pages of  Your God is too Small, by J.B.Phillips (published 1953).  The book is gone, but its message lives on.