Eighteen

Two years ago I quit my job.  I wanted to get away from off-price retail for a while.  I wanted to spend more time with my son and wife.  I wanted to try to do my own business of some sort.  And I really wanted to step out in faith and trust God for our needs.

So how did all of that work out?  Well, it has been two years and I am ready to start a new phase of life, trust, and adventure. Since October, we have been commuting to our little coastal church every weekend.  And after taking July off, we are about to embark on a new season of ministry and move there to pastor full time.

As exciting as that may be, and as much as I am anticipating serving there, a reality is nagging at me.  And it is my house.  Our house.  For almost six years, my lovely T. and I have lived here as husband and wife.  And as she would say, she has spent that time re-doing the place and decorating the place and it was just starting to come together the way that she was enjoying.  So I know it will be a little strange for her to leave it and move in to a new place, a new town, a new environment, and, even though we have been there for a bit, a new church.

For me, this house and I go back a little longer, eighteen years in fact.  And as we are getting ready to move there is both excitement and trepidation.  First, moving is hard.  Physically.  There are a lot of things to pack.  Over the years it seems like “stuff” keeps accumulating.  Eighteen years of “stuff”.  Not only “stuff”, but life as well.  Eighteen years worth.

This house is the longest place I have ever called home in my life.  Many things have happened here.  This house has seen a lot.  I am glad the walls can’t talk, but here is what this house has witnessed.

The removal of 70’s style orange shag carpets with just a Leatherman.   The sanding and staining of hardwood floors.  Twice.  A new roof.  Twice.  Wallpaper up and wallpaper down.  A red wall in the front room and a yellow wall in the kitchen.  The remodeling of a bathroom and a guest room.  A wall put up for my studio.

Apple and apple juice.  Grapes and grape juice.  66 rose bushes and the removal of 66 rose bushes.  Dogs, cats, a bass fish, and a rooster.  Saturn cars, Ford Ranger trucks, new Ford Focus, new Honda Civic, new Audi A3, Honda CRV, and Nissan Altima.  Plus a Mustang II, and other sundry vehicles, both running and not.

This house has witnessed three children grow up into adulthood, three children married and three grandchildren.  And one on the way. 

And the sudden death of my wife. And months of a sad and lonely man. 

And God’s grace and redemption for that sad and lonely man in finding true love with my precious T.  Our marriage almost six years ago.  New curtains, brightly colored walls.  And a nursery. 

A tough pregnancy and emergency surgery.   My beloved, ten minutes away from dying. A doctor who saved my wife’s life, and the life of my little boy.  Born two months early and three pounds.  And his near death twice during the first week of his life. 

And now he’s a loud, energetic and lap running four year old.  And she’s my wife for the rest of my days.  Laughter, love, comfortable and grateful.  Friends.

Bible studies, prayers, rejoicing and weeping.  All in the name of Jesus.  Oh yeah, and He has been here.  The whole time.  Eighteen years.  This was His house.  He used it and its occupants the way He wanted.  There are a lot of memories here.  There is a lot I am going to miss.  I love this house.  It was my home.

And as we are packing up and getting ready to move to the coast to a new place, I can’t help but become a television show in its final episode, with one last look before I turn out the light and close the door.  Thanks.

Eighteen years.  That’s a long time.  I have more packing to do.  And I need to get ready for the next eighteen years.

The Saga of the Red Balloon

After accepting the call to be the full time pastor at the church of a small coastal town, my wife and son and I will be settling down for a month back at our home before moving.  We were planning to take July off no matter what, as we needed to get some things done and see some friends.  Which brought us to Klamath Falls.  Which bring me to our story.

We had a little bit of time on Saturday to look around the town before going over to our friends house and having a barbeque, so we found ourselves downtown for a look.  They were having a Saturday Farmer’s Market and we got out to peak at the booths and the items for sale.  It was a typical market with produce, hand made crafts, candles, scarves, honey, etc.

At some point my four year old marches up to the herbs and spices booth and says, as matter of factly, to the seller of said herbs and spices, “I would like a green balloon please.” 

This was sweet on many levels.  One, he was so polite in his asking.  Two, he knows the difference between customers and those employees who are in charge.  Three, he was quite decisive and specific. 

Oh yeah, and four, there were no balloons anywhere at the booth, let alone green ones.  The kind lady said, “You do, do you?”  She then excused herself and went to some to the other booths before coming back and telling my son, “They have some balloons at the far booth with the red awning.”

So off we went to find a balloon.  Arriving at the “Balloon” booth, my son again asks politely, “I would like a green balloon, please.”’  “All we have are red ones.  Would you like a red one?”  “Oh yes, please.”  We do have a polite little guy.

The lady proceeded to tie the balloon on to his wrist, and after a “Thank you” off we went heading back to our car.  Walking though the market, our son a couple of times exclaimed to those passing by, “See my red balloon?” 

As we got to the sidewalk, my boy no longer wanted the red balloon tied to his wrist.  He wanted to hold the ribbon in his hand.  My wife was explaining to him that he would have to be very careful and to hold on tight and not let go of the ribbon.  And there he was, ever so carefully, holding the ribbon that held the red balloon in his tiny little hand.  So excited was he.  And then. . . .

It all happened so fast.  His little fingers on his little hand opened.  The red balloon with the ribbon began to lift in the air.  My wife did make a valiant attempt to grab the ribbon as it floated up.  But, to no avail.  The red balloon went higher and higher into the air.

My son’s face said it all.  First, there was a look of “what just happened?”  Then there was shock.  And then, the tears.  “My balloon!  It’s in the air!  Get it!  Can you get it please!  Up there!” 

My son is known for his pathos, and this was no exception.  His weeping and wailing and moaning and mourning were too much for any parent with a conscience to handle.  My wife knelt down by our sobbing and grieving son doing her best to console him and to also remind him of what she had said about holding tightly the ribbon. 

The tears, however, continued.  And continued.  And continued with the intermittent, “My balloon!  My red balloon!  It’s gone!  Up in the air!”

 Prior to getting into the car, we made our way to Safeway to buy some water and juice as the temperature was approaching the 90’s.  At the register, my boy explained his plight to the cashier.  “I lost my red balloon.  It went up in the sky.  It’s gone.”

“Well, we will just have to get you another one.  Would you like another balloon?”  He responded, “Yes, please.”   Taking a red balloon from a display and tying it to his wrist, she said, “There you go.”  “Thank you,” he said. (I told you he was polite).  And off we went.  And everybody was happy.  Wait. . . .

Though he seemed happy to have another red balloon, he was, for the next half hour, still sad and weepy about his other red balloon that was lost.  I am not going to lie when I say that I was getting a bit frustrated at his continual mention of his lost red balloon when he had a perfectly good, new and better looking balloon on his wrist.   My wife mentioned that he seems to have real concern over the lost red balloon.  Then things seem to settle back down again.

The next night, he woke up and couldn’t get back to sleep.  No doubt it was due to being in a motel and it was still hot, he snuggled into our bed.  And for the next forty-five minutes, he and I had some wonderful conversation with each other and performed some skits with his teddy bear.  Then, almost out of the blue, he began to softly quiver and said in the saddest whisper I have ever heard, “My red balloon is up in the sky and it is lost.”

It became as clear as it could be to me at that very moment.  My boy was sad, distressed, and troubled over a lost red balloon.  It was not because he lost it.  It was not because he no longer had it.  It was not because it had floated away. 

My boy was concerned about the well being of the red balloon.  It was far away from anybody.  It was all alone.  My wife was right that he was concerned because the balloon was lost. Out there in the air and nobody was able to get it.  Poor little red balloon all by itself.

 Jesus said that, “the Son of Man has come to seek and to save that which was lost.

My son of me, desired to save that which was lost.

  In Jesus’ case, He was speaking about people.  My son was speaking of a red balloon.  And if my son has such concern over lost little red balloon, how much more should I or we be concerned over people who are just as lost?

That'll preach.  And I will, on August 5th, at the coast.